


Kate Argent Must Die

by giantteenwolforgy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Coming Out, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Practice Kissing, very very loose John Tucker Must Die, with a little bit of Mean Girls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giantteenwolforgy/pseuds/giantteenwolforgy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>To Laura:</b> <i>I think Kate Argent has gone on three dates in two hours wtf </i></p><p> </p><p>(OR: The long overdue John Tucker Must Die AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hey, Asshole

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. WOOOOWWWW. I don't even know where to start. This story feels like my baby!! I came up with the idea quite awhile ago, mostly because I couldn't pass up the opportunity to do a story that gives Derek a chance to torture Kate for once (and I'm a sucker for HS AUs). It's been so fun to work on and I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :) 
> 
> I'm posting it now before I get too into my head and start second-guessing and editing all over again, so VOILA! Here you go!! Updates will come every Sunday unless there's some sort of issue. RATINGS AND TAGS WILL CHANGE (*wink wink*) 
> 
> \--Also WARNING/SLIGHT SPOILERS, just in case you aren't familiar with the movie, I figured I should note that there's a very very brief 'relationship' (if you can call it that) between Kate/Jackson, Kate/Isaac, and Kate/Stiles. That's what sets up the entire conflict of the story. Also, this story will center around a FAKE-relationship between Derek/Kate as part of the revenge scheme--
> 
> I hope you enjoy!! xoxo :)

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=4r3kg3)

At first, Derek doesn’t know that much about Kate Argent.

He knows that she’s pretty and kind of mean and that she’s the daughter of the richest bastard in town. He knows his sisters hate her.

Other than that there’s really no reason _for_ him to know anything.

He’s not a popular kid. He rarely goes to the lacrosse games, where she’s always cheer-leading front and center. He doesn’t have her in any of his classes this year. He _definitely_ doesn’t eat lunch with her.

Derek’s high school career mainly consists of one friend named Boyd, one younger sister who pretends she doesn’t know him in the hallway, and the afternoon shift at Sal’s Diner after school every other day (because his mother refuses to let him drive his car unless he can pay for his own gas). His life, by all accounts, is boring.

(Until it isn’t.)

* * *

His first mistake is picking up an extra Friday night shift. He doesn’t normally work those because Friday night is practically synonymous with _Date Night_ to all of his peers, but he’s still woefully underprepared for the vast amount of lovey-dovey “Can we share a milkshake?” teenagers that promptly overrun the diner. 

“I think it’s cute,” Kira tells him, eyes on a giggling couple in the corner. 

Derek makes a face. “You’ve built up an immunity to it.”

“Being in love isn’t a _disease_!” she laughs, even as she doodles a little heart in the corner of her order pad. 

“These people are _not_ in love.”

“How do you know that?” she asks mildly. And after a second of silence: “Have you ever been in love?” 

“ _No_ ,” he scoffs. 

“Well you don’t have to say it like _that_ , Mr. Debbie Downer,” she chides teasingly, but before Derek can think of an appropriately disdainful comment the bell above the door is jingling and interrupting their conversation.

“Oh God,” she mutters, as soon as her eyes land on Kate Argent. Jackson Whittemore is trailing behind her, looking smug as fuck to be out and about with Her Majesty Kate Argent (even though Derek thinks a date with Beacon Hills’ Most Eligible Sweetheart warrants a bit more effort than an early dinner at a restaurant best known for its Friday Night Two-for-One Onion Ring Special). 

Whatever. 

Jackson is captain of the swim team and a royal asshole. Derek didn’t really expect anything better from him. 

“It begins again,” Kira sighs and she quickly draws some jagged spikes around her heart. 

“What begins again?” he asks. 

Derek can only imagine how fed up he would get if he had to wait tables for Kate and Jackson every single week, so when Kira doesn’t automatically answer he shrugs and goes to take their order.

* * *

He's coming back over to see if they need anything else when he realizes that Kate’s foot is creeping slowly and steadily up the calf of some guy in a leather jacket who is decidedly _not_ Jackson Whittemore. The newcomer turns his head slightly and Derek recognizes him as Isaac Lahey, known throughout the school because he rides a motorcycle and slouches like it’s his religion.

He’s an asshole too.

None of the other waiters on duty look even remotely concerned at this sudden turn of events, and Derek briefly wonders if maybe all the stress of junior year is getting to him and he actually _hallucinated_ Jackson, but then—

But then, another hour later, he comes out of the kitchen to the sight of Stiles Stilinski, sitting across from Kate and gesturing wildly in the air. There’s a chocolate milkshake and a plate of curly fries sitting between them. 

Derek doesn’t understand how this is happening; actually wonders for a few seconds if there’s a speed-dating event going on that he didn’t know about, but dismisses that thought almost as quickly as it comes into his head. 

Stiles is sprawled in his seat, an easy smile on his face, probably completely fucking unaware that Kate is playing him.

It makes Derek’s stomach twist and he is suddenly, startlingly sure that Stiles is _way_ too good for Kate Argent.

Sure, he doesn’t really _know_ Stiles—doesn’t know anything about him besides the fact that he’s a straight-A student who is, admittedly, _also_ kind of an asshole (if Kate has a type, Derek thinks he’s found it)—but he definitely knows who he is. Stiles is the school's self-proclaimed investigative journalist and Derek is an avid reader of the newspaper. He seriously doubts the same person who wrote an exposé on Mr. Harris’ favoritism and who snuck into the cafeteria last month to take a picture of the nutritional information for the school’s turkey burgers would have back-to-back dates like Kate is doing. Stiles has principles.

The dinner rush is over and his manager is somewhere in the back, so Derek pulls out his phone and texts Laura: _I think Kate Argent has gone on three dates in two hours wtf_

His eyes drift back to the table, unbidden, to where Stiles is enthusiastically licking salt off of his fingers and Kate is watching with thinly veiled interest. Stiles looks up just then and it’s a testament to Derek’s bad luck that they happen to make direct eye contact. Derek cuts his gaze away at lightning speed, but the back of his neck is already prickling—which means his cheeks are probably red and _fuck_ Stiles is going to think that Derek was _totally_ creeping on him which he _wasn’t_ —

He chances a quick glance back at them and Stiles is still staring at him, eyes squinting in what looks like confusion and Derek just needs to walk away; he needs to turn around and _walk_ _away_. 

He turns to go, trips over his own shoe, and ends up hiding behind a potted tree. 

It’s not his finest moment. 

He’s decided to wait five minutes before re-emerging, but Kira breathlessly finds him a less than a minute later, hair falling out of her ponytail. “ _There_ you are! What are you doing?”

“Taking a break,” Derek tries, because he can’t really find a way to justify why he’s so embarrassed. He just is.

 “Whatever. Did you see she’s on a date with _Stiles Stilinski_ now?” 

“Yes,” he says uncomfortably.

“That makes three whole dates! In one night! Can you believe that? She usually stops at two.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “She does this a lot?” 

“She does this _a lot_.”

He scowls. “I don’t. I don’t get it. Why would she—she just cheats on them?”

“It’s an art.” She takes a moment to look around for any potential eavesdroppers before shuffling even _closer_ and solemnly saying: “I heard she dates guys who aren’t friends with each other so they don’t figure it out. And she tells them her dad won’t let her date, so they have to keep it a secret.”

Derek fidgets slightly. “And they never find out?”

“Never.”

“Shouldn’t we say something?”

Kira stumbles a few steps back. “If you want to, go ahead. But I’m not getting in the way of Kate Argent. That’s suicide.”

Derek actively despises Jackson, spends most of his time avoiding Isaac Lahey, and has never actually spoken to Stiles.

He keeps his mouth shut. 

* * *

The thing about dealing in absolutes is that it doesn’t stay absolute for long. It’s like the universe takes personal pleasure in fucking with people. 

For example: someone says they’ve _never_ broken a bone. A month later they break their arm tripping over their own shoelace. 

A guy mentions that he _always_ goes the speed limit. He gets a ticket for speeding the next day.

Kira says that Kate’s boyfriends _never_ find out about each other. 

They find out about each other. 

* * *

It happens because Mr. Harris doesn’t show up to school on Wednesday. 

“Alright, listen up you ingrates!” Finstock shouts, blowing his whistle so hard Derek thinks his eardrum is probably fractured. “As you may have noticed; your teacher decided not to grace us with his _lovely presence_ today. Now, I wasn’t planning on having to supervise a Chemistry class today in addition to my regular gym class, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. When my country calls, I answer.” Derek lets his head drop down to rest in his hands and tries to block out Boyd’s amused snickers. This is going to be the worst class period _ever_. “McCall! Do you know what that means?"

“We get to sit here and do nothing?”  he asks hopefully.

“Close,” Finstock says. “Two words: _Scrimmage_.”

“Uh, Coach?” Stiles calls out. Derek can tell he’s smirking just from the tone of his voice. “That’s only one word.”

He blows his whistle again. “Stilinski! You can be on Team One! Get down here, buddy.” Stiles groans, but drags himself down to the gym floor. “That’s right. We’re playing Dodgeball today, people! For those of you in Chemistry, I want you to spend the whole time thinking about _trajectory_  while you’re playing!”

“Is he serious right now?” Derek asks Boyd.

“Hale!” Derek jerks his head up, feels his cheeks heat as everyone turns around to look at him. “What was that?”

“Uh—“

“You want to be on Team One too? Well come on down! Jackson! Lahey! _Greenberg_! Let’s go! Now who wants to be on Team Two…?”

“Oh great,” he hears Stiles grumble as he trudges up next to him. “We get Shittemore.” Derek chokes on a laugh before he can stop himself and Stiles glances over at him, mouth quirked up at the edge. He looks like he’s about to say more, but then Jackson’s stomping over and declaring himself team captain.

“I object,” Stiles says immediately. 

Jackson snorts. “Well I object to your general existence, so I guess we’re even.”

“I will never understand what Lydia _ever_ saw in you,” Stiles grumbles as Finstock blows the starting whistle.

“Why don’t you ask her at one of your little study sessions?” Jackson spits out as he launches a ball across the court.

“No thanks,” Stiles sighs. “She doesn’t really like to talk about you that much anymore, considering you broke up with her _in a text message_.”

“That’s a dick move,” Isaac speaks up from where he’s lurking behind them and Derek is suddenly horribly aware of how bad this could be.

“Whatever. I don’t need this.” Jackson dodges a red ball and it hits Greenberg instead. “You can tell her Kate Argent isn't _half_ as high-maintenance as she was.”

Derek freezes, stomach twisting uncomfortably at the same time that Stiles lets out a loud laugh.  “Kudos for the effort, but you might want to try again.”

“It’s not an _effort_. I’m dating Kate now, you asswipe.”

“Seriously, stop, you're making me feel bad for you." Jackson looks like he's trying very hard not to resort to violence. "Here's a tip," Stiles goes on easily, "Check your facts before you tell a lie. I'm the one who's _actually_ taking Kate out on a date tonight."

Jackson sneers at him. “In your dreams, maybe.”

“In _your_ dreams, you mean,” Isaac says, ambling up to stand on the other side of Derek, arms crossed and this is seriously the worst. Derek lobs a dodge ball towards Danny and tries to ignore the train wreck happening a few feet away. “In _both_ of your dreams, actually.”

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes.

“What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean, Lahey?” Jackson asks, nostrils flaring as he catches a kickball aimed at his chest.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Isaac drawls. “ _I’m_ dating Kate.”

“You guys are pathetic,” Jackson scoffs, pelting the ball away and pegging Matt Daehler in the thigh. 

“Says the guy making up fake girlfriends,” Isaac mutters under his breath, moving forward to pick up a ball rolling towards him. 

After that, it happens so fast that Derek isn’t even too sure what happens. All he knows is that Jackson sticks out a foot to trip Isaac and Isaac retaliates by chunking the ball at Jackson. The ball misses, of course, and hits Stiles instead and suddenly everyone’s shouting at each other and throwing balls and Derek just wishes he was back in Chem class.

“Hey,” he tries tiredly as Finstock’s whistle shrieks and the other team slows to a stop. “Hey, _cut it out_.”

Jackson laughs at something and Stiles shoves him backwards. Derek groans.  

“Dude,” Scott McCall calls, starting over from his place on the bleachers. “ _Stiles_ , hey, what’s going on?”

“Back off, McCall,” Jackson spits. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Don’t tell him what to do, you dick,” Stiles snaps. 

“Don’t call me a dick, fuckface—“

“ _Hey_ ,” Derek says again, louder and more forceful than before as Finstock starts over towards them.

“Look—he was there!” Stiles says suddenly, long fingers wrapping around Derek’s wrist and tugging. 

“What—“

“He was working at Sal’s when I was there with Kate,” Stiles says and _what_. Derek hadn’t even known that Stiles definitively knew who he was, let alone recognized him from across the restaurant. 

“ _I_ went to Sal’s with Kate,” Isaac says, throwing another ball at Stiles. He manages to get his hand up to deflect it, but it shoots sideways and smacks Derek straight in the face. 

Which. Fucking _ouch_. He stumbles backwards and runs into Finstock _and_ Scott, sending all of them tumbling to the floor; Coach blasts his whistle directly in Derek’s ear and he is so _done_ with this. Fuck Kate Argent.

“She’s _cheating on you_!” he shouts from the floor. He’s pretty sure his nose is bleeding. “She’s cheating on all of you!” 

Scott’s gasp seems to echo in the abruptly silent gym.

“ _What_ ,” Jackson seethes—

_“Detention!”_ Finstock screams.

* * *

“It’s not broken,” Mrs. Griffiths proclaims, leaning forward to prod his throbbing nose once more. Derek jerks away, hissing through his teeth. “Just badly bruised.”

“Wonderful,” Derek grumbles. 

“Would you like an ice pack, dear?”

“N—“ The door to the nurse’s office bangs open, and Mrs. Griffiths and Derek both jump. Stiles strides in, cheeks flushed, eyes narrow and glinting. 

“Hey, _asshole_ ,” he says, and Derek’s mouth drops open. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“ _Mr. Stilinski!_ ” the nurse gasps, clutching a gnarled hand to her chest in horror. It would be funny if Derek wasn’t so bewildered. 

“I just wanted to tell you that I think what you did was really shitty.”

“What _I_ did?” Derek exclaims, indignant anger shooting through his veins and coloring his cheeks. “I’m not—I didn’t—Kate’s the one who cheated on you!”

“Yeah, and you’re the one who _knew_ I was being cheated on and decided to fucking announce it in front of the whole gym! Do you know how embarrassing—“

“It’s not like I chose to do it that way!” Derek spits back. “I wasn’t going to say anything!”

Stiles stares at him, plush mouth gaping open. “Wow,” he says finally, expression flattening. “Wow.”

“Mr. Stilinski,” Mrs. Griffiths says again, voice steely. “Do I need to call your father?”

“No,” he says, and Derek stiffens in shock when Stiles throws another glower his way. “I’m leaving.”

* * *

Detention predictably sucks. It is so not worth the grounding Derek is probably going to get. 

_Plus_ he has to spend extra time in Coach Finstock’s classroom which, frankly, smells like feet. 

As such, he spends most of the hour glaring at Stiles because it is definitely, without a doubt, all his fault that he got in trouble for absolutely _no reason_. He was trying to help them out, and what did he get? A bloody nose and an hour in hell.

Stiles spends most of his time glaring back since Derek somehow violated the bro-code by not immediately and discreetly informing Stiles about what he witnessed at Sal’s. (“It’s bullshit,” Derek had complained to Boyd during lunch, after the Nurse’s Office Debacle. “We’re not even friends!”)

_Apparently_ , the bro-code transcends friendship. Or something. Derek isn’t going to try to understand it—especially because Stiles is the only one who even seems angry at him. 

Jackson does nothing but mutter under his breath and furiously text, eyes on his phone for the whole first half of detention.

Isaac just lounges in his desk.

Derek wants to pull his hair out.

At around the forty minute mark, Finstock tells them to _absolutely not under any circumstances talk to each other_ and then leaves the room. 

The silence lasts all of ten seconds before Jackson spits out, “I can’t _believe_ she did this to us.”

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes, pausing his ocular attack on Derek for one blessed minute. “Yeah? Well I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

Isaac sits up. “ _I_ can’t believe we aren’t doing anything about it.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing, idiot?” Jackson asks, waving his phone obnoxiously. “By tomorrow morning, the whole school will know that Kate Argent is a total bitch.”

* * *

“ _Frederick Scott_!” his mother barks, the second she blows through the front door. 

“Uh-oh,” Cora says smugly, looking way too pleased for Derek’s liking. “Someone’s in trouble.”

Derek glares at her and abandons his history essay, trotting out to the front hall where his mother is struggling with three bags of groceries. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks as he takes one from her and follows her back into the kitchen. “Is this—is this about what happened at school today?” 

“What happened at school today?” Cora asks, jumping up to dig through the bag closest to her. “Hey, did you remember to buy waffles?”

“Cora, now is not the time,” Talia says, setting her purse on the table with a satisfying _clunk_. “A fight, Derek? Detention is one thing, but a _fight_?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” he protests immediately, feeling a residual twinge from his nose. “I was trying to break it up!”

“Why were you involved in the first place?”

“It was stupid,” he mutters abashedly, scuffing his socked toe along the tile. “I—this girl was cheating on some guys and they had no idea, but I did and they were arguing, and—I was just trying to help.”

“Wait a second—that was _you_?” Cora asks incredulously. “You’re responsible for Kategate?”

“What the hell is a Kategate,” he asks, not sure he even wants to hear the answer. 

“This whole— _thing_! I’ve been hearing about it all day. Kate was the one cheating on them, right?” Derek nods wordlessly. “Yeah, so, _I_ heard that some idiot—you’re the idiot in this story—“

“Cora,” their mom warns impatiently, hands on her hips. 

“Well he _is_! Some idiot, a.k.a. Derek, told these guys that Kate was cheating on them during gym class and then they got into this big fight and Jackson Whittemore was really upset about it all, so he sent out a bunch of mass text messages telling everyone what she did, but it totally backfired.”

“It backfired?”

“Oh yeah,” she snorted. “Be glad you’re a nobody. Kate responded with this really tearful post on her Facebook, talking about how she never meant to hurt anyone’s feelings and she’s being attacked for absolutely no reason because the guys never stated they wanted mutually exclusive relationships. Now everybody’s siding with Kate and thinks the guys are total jerks.”

“Well they obviously are,” his mother huffs, “since they pulled Derek into a fight.”

“No, Mom,” Cora protests. “You don’t get it. Kate Argent is _evil_. She knew _exactly_ what she was doing. She does this kind of stuff all the time, on _purpose_.”

“I thought Kate Argent was the cute girl who won the Miss Junior Beacon Hills pageant last year.”

“Ugh,” his sister shudders, flopping back into her chair. “Don’t call her cute, I may barf. She’s the one who kicked me off the cheerleading team because I _accidentally_ dumped a slushy in her designer backpack.”

“Accidentally?” Derek asks skeptically. 

“Well, it wasn't premeditated—“

"That doesn't mean it wasn't on _purpose_ —"

"Well she told everyone that I wanted to date  _Matt Daehler_ ," she says hotly, and Derek gives an appalled shudder. "She deserved it."

“That’s enough,” his mom sighs tiredly. “Put the groceries away please; I’m going to get changed. Derek, we’ll talk more when your father gets home.”

“ _Great_ ,” he grumbles, grabbing a jug of milk and trudging towards the fridge. 

“You had good intentions,” Cora concedes, once their mother has disappeared up the stairs. “But you went about it in the worst way possible. You cant hit Kate Argent head on. She has the force of public approval in her corner.”

“What does that even mean?” Derek bitches, shoving the milk precariously onto one of the shelves. 

“It means: if you want to get back at Kate you have to be _sneaky_ about it. Otherwise she’s going to come out on top.”

“I _don’t_ want to get back at Kate,” he complains. “I don’t want to do anything.”

Cora shrugs, tosses a pack of ground beef his way, and they put the rest of the groceries away in silence. 


	2. Bi Any Other Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAVE ANOTHER CHAPTER because I'm so excited to get this story up and running :)

The next day unfolds just how Cora said it would. Miraculously, Derek has not been grounded, but it seems like the issue of Kate Argent and Her Three Boyfriends isn't going to die down anytime soon. Everywhere Derek goes he hears people whispering about how Stiles, Isaac, and Jackson are complete assholes. Which, granted, they kind of are, but there’s no doubt in his mind that Kate is a complete asshole too. Probably a bigger asshole than the three of them combined, honestly. 

 _She knows exactly what she’s doing_ , Cora had said and Derek’s inclined to agree. Especially after he sees Kate intermittently giving Jackson the evil-eye as she sniffles into her pom-poms.

He's not really sure how she's managed to sway 80% of the student body so easily, but by midday it seems like almost every girl wants to be her and almost every guy wants to be _with_ her. Derek has long given up trying to make sense of the trivialities of high school. 

He manages to avoid most of the drama by keeping to himself a little more than usual, and succeeds pretty well—until he accidentally walks into the bathroom at the wrong time, and sees the three people he's been most intent on avoiding. They're having some sort of whispered argument in the corner, identical frowns on their faces. 

“We need a better plan,” he hears Isaac say, and then (just like in the fucking diner) Stiles looks up and their eyes catch. 

“Hey—“ he says, but Derek’s already stalking the other way.  

* * *

 

_Representing Bisexualities: Subjects and Cultures of Fluid Desires_

_The Bisexual Resource Guide_

_Dual Attraction: Understanding Bisexuality_

Derek has just added _Bi Any Other Name: Bisexual People Speak Out_ to the stack of books in his hands when Stiles comes careening around the corner, backpack hanging off of one shoulder and a pinched look on his face. 

“Do you know how hard you are to track down?” he asks loudly—way too loudly for the hushed atmosphere of the library. 

“You didn’t seem to have a problem tracking me down the other day,” Derek responds coolly. 

He waves an impatient hand. “Yeah, well you had a busted nose. I figured you’d be getting it checked—“ he cuts himself off, eyes widening. “Whoa. Wow, I—Are you okay?”

“What?” Derek snaps, feeling a wave of self-consciousness sweep over his body as he subtly tries (and fails) to see what got Stiles’s attention. He hopes his nose isn’t swelling up. “I’m _fine_. But you better shut up or Mrs. Hastings is going to yell at you.”

“You sure?” Stiles asks. He takes a step forward and Derek reflexively takes a step back. “You don’t want to…talk, or anything?”

“Why would I want to talk to you? You’re the one who came looking for me.” Stiles nods his head towards the books Derek is still clutching, eyebrows quirking up, and Derek feels his lungs seize up in sudden humiliation. “Oh—oh my God—no that’s not—I’m not—I was just—uh—“ he fumbles with the books while he’s trying to shove them back on the cart, and they tumble to the floor. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and he and Stiles bend down at the same time to pick them up together, heads cracking together. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says again, while Stiles reels back, hand flying up to grasp his forehead. 

“Dude,” he wheezes. “Chill out. It’s okay if you—“

“But that’s not—trust me, this isn’t—“ 

He knows his whole face is flushed cherry red, can feel it in the prickling of his cheeks and chest as he hurriedly scoops the heavy books up off the floor. He chances a glance at Stiles out of the corner of his eye and sees his expression souring. 

“Alright, you can stop acting like being bi is some sort of disease,” he says sharply.

“No,” Derek says helplessly, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. “I didn’t mean—it’s not that _I’m_ not—I just…I’m just re-shelving books.”

Stiles stares at him for a minute, face unreadable. Derek wants to die. 

“You re-shelve books during your free period?” 

“Yes,” he says weakly. 

“Damn. What’d you do to get that kind of punishment?”

“I. Nothing. Mrs. Hastings had hip surgery and can’t get around as easily. I’m just helping her.”

Stiles blinks. “You _volunteered_ to re-shelve books during your free period?”

“Is there a reason you came to find me?” Derek changes the subject, crossing his arms tightly over the front of his shirt. 

“Uh—yeah,” Stiles shakes his head. “Yeah, there is. We need your help.”

Derek stares incredulously at him, waiting for the punchline, but— _hilariously_ —Stiles doesn’t seem to be joking. “ _My_ help? With _what_?”

“With getting revenge on Kate Argent.”

“Why would _I_ help _you_?” Derek asks, raising one unimpressed eyebrow.

“Because I asked nicely?” 

Derek snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

“Really?”

“ _No_.”

“Dude, come on, I know we didn’t get off to the best start, but—“

Derek thinks that's a gross understatement, but before he can say this, Jackson and Isaac melt out of nowhere and startle him. He stumbles back a step, knocking a few books off the cart again. “Son of a—“ 

“I knew the nice approach wouldn’t work,” Jackson mutters. “Stilinski, get out of the way.” 

“Don't tell me what to—“

Jackson brandishes his lacrosse stick. “Help us or I’m going to beat you up.” 

“Are you _serious_?” Derek asks, fists clenching by his sides. 

Isaac rolls his eyes, lips curled up in an endearing smirk. “Help us and I’ll buy you a leather jacket.” 

“I don’t want a leather jacket.” 

“Okay, well. What do you want?” Stiles asks, chewing on his bottom lip. Derek is distracted by the sight for like two seconds. Less than two seconds, really. It’s definitely not enough of a pause to warrant Jackson poking him in the chest with the stick. Seriously, fuck him. Derek hates him so much. Derek hates them all. 

“I want to be left alone,” he spits out after a moment, levelling his best glare at all of them. “I have re-shelving to do.”

There is no way he’s helping them. No way. 

* * *

The next day, Stiles drops into the seat across from Derek at lunch. Derek pauses with his sandwich halfway to his mouth, blinking in shock at the sudden arrival. Boyd doesn't even look up from his chicken spaghetti. "What if I told you that it was Kate Argent’s idea to TP your house last year,” he says, with no preamble. 

“What?" he asks dumbly. And then: "Wait, _what_? How do you know that?” 

(Derek might help them.)

“Because I heard her, dude,” Stiles says. “I was waiting to interview a cheerleader and Kate and Jennifer Blake were talking about it. Your sister complained to the principal about her or something and so they wrapped your house.” 

“I was picking up toilet paper for _five hours_ ,” Derek grits out, nostrils flaring. Fucking Kate Argent.

Boyd snorts.

“Does that mean you’ll help?” Stiles asks.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Derek’s only been associating with him for like two days and he's done nothing but cause him trouble. Helping him would undoubtedly be like inviting more trouble to find him with open arms. Plus Derek isn’t sure he wants to willfully subject himself to more time with Stiles. He's not so sure he has as many principles as Derek thought he did. But, then again, Kate is… Derek thinks that Kate probably deserves to have revenge wreaked upon her. Especially since this is like the fifth time he's heard that she's been mean to his little sister.

“At least think about it."

“Fine. I’ll think about it,” he grumbles and averts his eyes when Stiles’s whole face lights up.

* * *

“Do you know who Stiles Stilinski is?” Derek asks Cora as he’s getting ready to leave for Sal’s. 

“Duh,” she says, snapping her gum obnoxiously. “Why?”

“What do you think about him?” 

She shrugs. “I used to have a crush on him.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant,” he groans, mouth twisting in a grimace. “God, I just meant, like—do you think he’s a good guy?”

“ _Why?”_

Derek purses his lips. “He—well, him and Isaac and Jackson asked me to do them a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

He gives her a long-suffering look. "They want me to help them get revenge against Kate Argent.”

Cora sits up so fast she almost falls off the couch. “Do it. Oh my God, Derek, _do it_.”

“But—“ 

“I’ll help you! If Laura wasn’t at UCLA she’d help you too. Seriously, Derek, think of all the girls she’s ever tortured. Every guy she’s ever screwed over! You'd be doing the world a favor."

Derek makes a face. "But I thought most of the school was on her side."

"That's because the people who aren't on her side are too spineless to speak up! And the people who _are_ on her side don't know the first thing about her. Derek you could totally crush her!"

"I'm thinking about it," he sighs. "But I don't want you too involved. I don't want to give Kate another reason to hate you."

"She didn't have a reason in the first place," Cora scoffs, waving a dismissive hand.

" _Cora_."

"Fine," she groans, "But you _have_ to do it.”

* * *

“I’ll be right back,” Derek tells Boyd the next day, and weaves his way through the crowded hallway until he’s standing by Stiles’s locker. Stiles is digging around inside it, muttering to himself, and Derek awkwardly clears his throat—presses his lips together when Stiles jumps and hits his head against the side. 

“Fuck, dude, what?” he asks irritably, scrubbing a hand over his hair. 

“You have highlighter on your cheek,” Derek tells him. 

He scowls. 

“And also, I decided that I would help you. As long as I don’t have to do anything illegal,” he tacks on as an afterthought. 

“Sweet,” Stiles breathes out, sagging back for a second. “Best news I’ve had all week. Thanks. Can we meet at your house after school to go over the plan?”

“Uh—I gue—“

“Cool. Gimme your phone,” he says, holding out an impatient hand and wiggling his fingers. 

Derek digs it out of his pocket wordlessly; hands it over and watches Stiles tap in his number. He feels a bit winded, suddenly, though it’s not altogether an unpleasant feeling.  

“Text me your address,” Stiles is saying, already backing away. “Gotta run! I’ll tell the others!” he calls over his shoulder, and Derek is left alone in the hallway, hoping he doesn’t regret this.  


	3. The Plan Is This:

It’s 4 o’clock and Derek is frantically cleaning his room. Cora’s leaning against his doorframe, judging him. He _definitely_ regrets this.

“Don’t forget to empty your trash,” she tells him helpfully as he shoves some more dirty clothes in his hamper.

He scowls at her, but flicks his eyes over to the basket anyways and— _fuck_ , it’s full of tissues because he woke up with horrible allergies the other day, but they’re going to think that he—

The doorbell rings just as he starts over to it and he curses and darts over to his bed instead, pulling the bedspread up hastily.

“Does it look _too_ clean now?” he asks, fingers twitching. He doesn’t want it to look like he _tried_ to make his room nice for them or anything.

Cora snorts. “You are literally the only one who’s going to care—”

“It does,” he decides, and he folds the covers back down again before flying out of his room and down the stairs. He opens the door to see all three of them standing there on his porch, equally terrifying grins on all their faces.

“We have a plan,” Stiles says, shouldering his way inside before Derek can even get a word out.

Derek stumbles backwards a step as they swarm inside. “Uh—“

“We’re going to bury her alive,” Jackson vows, just as Peter comes around the corner.

Everyone stops and Peter blinks in surprise, eyes flitting around the hallway for an awkward moment. Derek feels like a fucking deer in the headlights.

“What are you boys up to?” he finally asks mildly.

“Nothing,” Derek says at the same time as Isaac says: “Plotting a murder.”

“Ah.” Peter hums, lips quirking as Derek glares at Isaac. “Let me know if you need an alibi,” he sighs as he drifts out of the room.

Jackson narrows his eyes. “Was he serious?”

“Probably,” Derek groans, running a hand through his hair.

Stiles turns to him with wide eyes. “Dude. Was that your dad?”

“My uncle.”

“Your uncle’s kind of hot.”

Derek’s mouth drops open, but before he can respond, his mother sticks her head in.

“Are your friends staying for dinner, honey?”

“ _No_ ,” Derek says immediately and firmly, before anyone else can think to speak. She gives him a disapproving look, but retreats back to the living room with Peter.

“Dude, your aunt’s hot too,” Stiles whispers, mouth open.

Derek is going to fucking punch him. “That’s my _mom_.”

“Oh,” Stiles quirks a sheepish grin at him. “Sorry.”

The way he says it—flippantly, like this kind of thing happens all the time—makes Derek narrow his eyes. “Whatever.” He starts off towards the stairs, motioning for them to follow. “This plan better not get me into any more trouble.”

“It won’t,” Stiles says hurriedly, accidentally stepping on the backs of Derek’s sneakers in his rush to catch up. Derek doubles his pace just to get away from the hot breath on the back of his neck and Stiles stumbles up the first step. “It’s foolproof.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” he mutters skeptically.

“No, it’ll totally work b—“

Cora appears at the top of the stairs, sees them all thundering up, and immediately turns around and disappears from sight again.

“Dude,” Stiles murmurs. “Was that your sister? She’s—“

“ _Shut up_ ,” Derek hisses, turning to glare at him as they enter his bedroom. “Tell me the plan before I push you back down the stairs.”

“Right, so,” Stiles hedges as the others file in, eyes on Derek. “How do you feel about fake-dating?”

Derek rears back, heart doing a double-tap against his ribs. “You want us to fake-date? _Why_?”

“No, no, not _me_!” Stiles scoffs, while Jackson pretends to gag in the background. Isaac kicks out a lazy foot to make him stop. “Listen: I was thinking about it, and I realized that the reason Jackson’s little Text Crusade failed was because we had no evidence to back it up. He had no sources to quote, no examples to point to, nothing to back up his story.” Derek nods slowly, but Stiles keeps talking without really waiting for an answer. “If we just accuse her of something, it turns into a game of he said, she said. Which Kate is apparently going to win. Always.”

“So what are you doing here?” Derek huffs.

Stiles goes digging in his backpack like he’s been waiting for the question and pulls a video camera out from God knows where. He wiggles it triumphantly. “We’re going to do what all great journalists do. We're going to get proof.”

* * *

Apparently there’s a rumor. A rumor that, according to Stiles, holds the key to Kate Argent’s ruination.

“Some people say she has a burn book.”

“Like in Mean Girls?” Derek asks incredulously. He’s seen that movie, okay. And he’s pretty sure that no matter what Stiles claims, this plan is going to get him in a lot of trouble.

_God_. 

He should've known. Stiles and his stupid smirk and his stupid skinny jeans and his stupid propensity for needling away at people until they give him what he wants... 

The plan is this:

  1.                Hire an Inside Man to work with them for the duration of the Sting Operation.
  2.                Make the Inside Man so irresistible that Kate will ask him to be her “boyfriend” (by which she obviously means just another sucker in a long line of idiots).
  3.                Use the position as her “boyfriend” to ruin her from the inside out, i.e. record her trash-talking her friends, get footage of her cheating, and ultimately gain access to her room and steal the burn book.
  4.                Distribute the footage and the burn book at school so that everyone knows who Kate really is.  



* * *

Derek hates the plan. Mostly because—

“We want you to fake-date _Kate_!” he’s telling him excitedly, and somehow that’s way worse than having to pretend-date Stiles. “You get to be the Inside Man!”

“Are you sure this isn’t illegal?” he repeats, even as his stomach sinks. It’s a good concept, Cora would probably love it—it’s just. There’s no way it can work. Derek has never even kissed anyone, never really even intentionally _flirted_ with someone. There is no way he’s going to be able to successfully seduce Kate Argent and trick her into exposing her evil ways. He swallows. “I—“

“I told you this wasn’t going to work,” Jackson sighs, turning away. “Look at his face; even he knows it’s a shot in the dark.”

“No, it’s not,” Stiles snaps. “Derek can totally do it, right Derek?”

He's looking at him hopefully, _stupid_ brown eyes all wide and fringed with dark lashes. Isaac is chewing nervously on his bottom lip; Jackson is scowling down at his feet. 

For some reason his protests get stuck in his throat and Derek does the dumbest thing he's ever done in his life. 

He nods. 

* * *

“But seriously, like, why is your whole family so freakishly attractive?” Stiles asks, haphazardly tossing another shirt to the floor.

“You know you’re cleaning all of those up, right?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised.

“Is it a side-effect of being rich?” he continues.

“Yes,” Jackson says, from across the room.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Here,” Isaac says, absentmindedly chewing on one of the Twizzlers he stole from Derek’s desk. “Try on my leather jacket.”

“Do you lift weights?” Jackson asks him.

“Uh,” Derek struggles to fit his other arm through the sleeve of Isaac’s jacket. He feels like he’s caught in a tornado made of Axe cologne and insults. “Sometimes.”

“Sweet,” Stiles says approvingly. “Do that. Also, remember to only wear the shirts that are still hanging up. I might think your sweaters are adorable, but Kate won't. Good? Good.” Derek blinks. “Now you just need a cool car. Jackson, pony up.”

“What?”

“I know you have another sexy car hidden somewhere. Give it to Derek.”

“Yeah,” Isaac chimes in. “Give it to Derek.”

“I am not giving anything to Derek—“

"Come on,” Stiles groans. “You think he can win over Kate by riding his bicycle to school?”

Derek bristles.

“You managed to take her out in your piece of shit jeep,” Jackson says and Stiles's eyes flash.

“I don’t want his car,” Derek tries.

“You're just jealous because I have a bigger backseat,” Stiles spits.

Isaac winks at Derek.

“I have a Camaro,” he says loudly, jaw clenched. 

Stiles stops leering at Jackson immediately. “You have a _Camaro_? What color is it?”

“Black.”

“You have a _black Camaro_?” he chokes out, reaching out a hand to blindly grasp at Derek’s bookshelf. “Dude, that’s. I'm not gonna lie; I really want to make out with you right now.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Jackson says, while Derek starts coughing for absolutely no reason.

“You okay?” Isaac asks him, twirling another Twizzler around his finger. He looks way too entertained by everything that’s happening.

"Sorry Jackson," Stiles says, eyes still on Derek. "Porsche's are cool, but your attitude is a total turn off for me."

_"Good!"_

“So—" he breathes, eyes flicking back to Derek's. "Camaro. Why haven’t I seen it around school, like, ever?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says uncomfortably, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. He can't tell if Stiles is being serious or making fun of him. “I mean. I usually carpool with my friend Boyd, but—”

“You _carpool_? What are you a forty year old soccer mom?”

“It’s better for the environment,” Derek mutters acidly and Stiles looks at him out of the corner of his eye for a long moment.

“You’re so weird.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Jackson interrupts, face thunderous. “This is great and all, but we still haven’t figured out how he’s actually going to _meet_ Kate.”

“True,” Isaac says. “They can’t date if they don’t know each other.”

Stiles frowns thoughtfully, eyes intent on Derek. He tries to maintain the eye contact; tries to convey cool stoicism and _you annoy me_ vibes, but after a long minute his stomach flips unnervingly. He averts his gaze to the books behind Stiles’s left shoulder.

“I have an idea…” he finally says and Derek knows immediately that he’s not going to like whatever Stiles has come up with.

Isaac eats another Twizzler.

“How do you feel about joining the lacrosse team?”

* * *

Cora laughs so hard Derek is pretty sure she sprains something. 

"Honey," his mother says, "are you sure this is something you want?" 

"You think I won't be any good?" he asks—defensively, way too defensively, he knows, but he's so uneasy about this. He doesn't know why Stiles thought this was a good idea. 

"Can you even _play_ lacrosse?" Cora asks. 

"Of course I can play lacrosse! I'm not completely useless!" 

"No one thinks you're useless," his mom says, voice firm. "We're just surprised, that's all.” She ladles another helping of spaghetti onto his plate. "Eat up. You're gonna need your strength if you're going to morning practice tomorrow." 


	4. Hey Handsome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four posted a day early because I don't know if I'll have time tomorrow! :) Hope everyone had a happy Halloween!

It takes one week before Kate approaches him. One week of grueling, sweaty, two-a-day lacrosse practices that make Derek wish he’d never even met Stiles Stilinski. He spends most of his time getting driven into the grass by Jackson, who tackles like he’s got a personal grudge against Derek, which. Derek’s fucking helping him out. The least he could do is go a little easy on him.

After the umpteenth time he fumbles the ball (because sure, his hand-eye coordination is decent, but relaxed games of catch with Boyd don’t compare to lacrosse boot camp) he wonders if he’s going to get kicked off the team before they even make contact with Kate. Apparently, as Coach Finstock gleefully tells Derek, there’s no chance of him ever getting kicked off because he replaced Greenberg—who was somehow even worse than he is. 

More often than not, Stiles watches his lacrosse practices. Derek will catch a glimpse of him bent over his textbook in the bleachers, highlighter between his teeth. Sometimes he gives Derek a shit-eating grin and a sarcastic thumbs up when Derek drags himself up from the ground, but most of the time he’s reading or texting someone. Derek has no idea why he even shows up, because his presence is much more distracting than it is helpful.  

When he asks him, Stiles rolls his eyes and says, in a voice that suggests he thinks Derek is incredibly stupid, “The cheerleading team practices on the field behind yours.”

“So?” Derek snaps, already regretting the decision to start a conversation with him.

“ _So_ , I can see them from the bleachers. I can see _Kate_ from the bleachers. It’s a lot weirder for a guy to go watch cheerleading practice than it is for a guy to watch lacrosse practice, you know.”

Derek grudgingly admits that it’s a good plan, since Stiles can ultimately see if Kate is taking any kind of interest at all in him, but not everyone shares his point of view.

“Who do you think Stilinski is thirsting after?” someone asks one day in the locker room, to a lot of raucous laughter and whistles. Apparently, watching practices is an activity generally reserved for partners of the players. “Actually,” the guy—some asswipe named Garrett—goes on, “A better question is, why he thinks any of us would actually want to bone his skinny ass.” 

“Maybe if you stopped staring at Stilinski, you’d play better on the field,” Jackson spits at him, slamming his locker door shut at the same time Scott McCall comes careening over from the showers to angrily and passionately declare that _he_ would bone his skinny ass. 

The sight of Garrett getting simultaneously and thoroughly chastised by both of his team captains is so satisfying that Derek can’t help but snicker into his pads. 

“If you tell Stilinski I defended him, I’ll kick your ass,” Jackson growls at him later. 

“I would never,” Derek pledges solemnly, even though up until that moment he had been seriously considering it. 

* * *

In the end, the first time he meets Kate isn’t even when he’s on the lacrosse field.

He’s in the cafeteria, lunch tray in hand, trying to ignore the way his thighs are protesting against the simple walk across the tiled floor, when someone taps him on the shoulder. 

He isn’t sure who he’s expecting, but it definitely isn’t Kate Argent, smirking devilishly at him and saying, “Hey, handsome.”

And Derek’s brain just. Freezes.  

* * *

"Dude, that was—what the fuck _was_ that?" 

Jackson has Derek cornered in an empty classroom and Derek wants to punch himself in the face. Maybe he'll settle for just punching Jackson. God, he _knew_ this wouldn't work; why didn't he say anything? Why didn't he tell them, let them know, at least, that he hasn't—that he's _never_ — 

Now Stiles has gone to find Isaac and they’re having an Emergency Meeting because Derek fucked everything up.

"Sorry," he grits out and Jackson laughs mirthlessly. 

“That’s all you have to say for yourself? You looked straight at her and _glared_  until she walked away! Not entirely the first impression we were hoping for." 

"I _know_ ," he groans, letting himself collapse on one of the chairs, scrubbing a frustrated hand through his hair. "I—I wasn't prepared to see her; I didn't know what to say."  

"How’d you get your last girlfriend to go on a date with you?" 

Yeah. Derek definitely should have told them about his significant lack of experience. He sighs. No time like the present. "I—didn't." 

"You didn't? What, she asked you out?”

“No. I haven’t ever had one.” 

"A date?" Jackson asks, blinking. 

"A girlfriend." 

" _Are you_ —“ Jackson starts to say (loudly), lips thinning, and of course that's when Stiles and Isaac walk in.  

"What happened?" Stiles interrupts immediately, eyes flicking back and forth between them. "What did we miss?”

"Did you know he's never had a girlfriend before?" Jackson demands, spinning on his heel and crossing his arms petulantly.  

“What about a boyfriend?” Stiles asks without missing a beat, and Derek shakes his head jerkily.

Isaac’s eyebrows fly up at the same time that Stiles's mouth clicks shut and they both stare at Derek in something amounting to shock. 

He sighs loudly and stands up again. "It’s not the end of the fucking world.”

"Never? You've never dated _anyone_?" Stiles asks, though why Stiles thinks Derek would lie about this, he has no idea. Stiles clears his throat at Derek's stony silence. "Okay, well, you’re right. It's not the end of the world." 

Isaac snorts. "It's pretty bad." 

"Agreed," Jackson bites out. 

"Alright, well if it's such a big deal then how about we forget the whole plan?" Derek asks bitchily. "I have a class to get to." 

"Wait, just, seriously," Stiles says, arms out in a placating manner. "We can fix this. Send her some flowers. Girls love flowers.”

“My sisters are allergic to flowers,” Derek says obnoxiously and Stiles makes a face at him. 

“ _Kate_ loves flowers, then. I think.” 

"Yeah," Jackson snorts. "And what happens if it works? What happens if she _does_ want to go out on a date with him, what do we do then?" 

"Going on a date isn't fucking rocket science," Stiles snaps, stealing the words right out of Derek's mouth. "I'm sure Derek can figure it out." 

"Great. Am I free to go then?" Derek asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer before shouldering his way into the hallway.    

* * *

"Is there a reason Stilinski keeps looking at you?" Boyd asks him during English class. They're supposed to be working on questions about the assigned reading last night with a partner, but Mrs. Powell is busy talking to a teacher out in the hallway so no one is talking about the book. 

Derek shrugs uncomfortably. He hasn't told Boyd about the plan to exact revenge on Kate yet; is unsure how to explain the fact that he's helping Stiles, when half the time he doesn't know how to explain it to himself. 

Boyd inclines his head. "Okay. Well is there a reason you've joined the lacrosse team?" 

Derek's hand jolts and he makes a slash across his paper with his pen. "Cora told you," he grits out. 

Boyd shrugs. "Even if she did—I'm not an idiot, Derek. I think I would have noticed eventually." 

"Yeah," he sighs. "You probably would have." 

Boyd doesn't answer and he takes the pause to look over his left shoulder, where Stiles is indeed staring at him. His eyes widen when they meet Derek’s and he jerks upright, mouthing things that Derek has no intention or inclination to decode. He turns back around with a huff.

"So what's up?" Boyd asks after a second. 

He tells Boyd. Haltingly and choppily, he somehow gets the story out. 

"Damn," Boyd says, after he's finished.  

Derek feels about fifty pounds lighter, hadn’t even realized how much stress it had been causing him to be keeping this all a secret until it wasn’t a secret anymore. He's _so_ in over his head—embroiled in a revenge plot, trying to date the captain of the cheerleading team, having to juggle lacrosse practice and shifts at Sal’s. Somehow getting it all out in the open makes it a bit better. Boyd doesn't offer him any advice, just a clap on his back that solidifies his sudden resolve to fix it. 

It's not the end of the world. Like Stiles had said—it's not rocket science. He can totally date Kate Argent with no prior experience. 

For Cora. 

Totally.  

The bell rings not long after their conversation is finished and Derek packs away his books quickly, has just shouldered his backpack when Stiles comes skidding up to him, fingers clutching at Derek's shirt. "Hey," he says breathlessly. "I need to talk to you." 

Boyd raises one eyebrow and walks away, leaving them alone in the classroom. 

"Make it quick," Derek says, avoiding his gaze. 

"Right. I just wanted to, you know—let you know that you aren't in this alone. I know that Jackson and Isaac are kind of—" 

"Dickheads?" Derek offers, when he pauses uncertainly. 

"Yeah," his grin is brief, but bright. "I was going to say a little too preoccupied with wanting to see Kate pay, but yeah, you could say that. I just. If you don't want to do this, you don't have to." 

"I can do it," Derek says stubbornly, hopeful mood souring. "What am I, completely undateable or something?" 

"No, it's not that," he says hurriedly. "I just know that I wouldn't want _my_ first date to be some sort of revenge mission. I'd understand is all." 

"Well," Derek says slowly, because honestly he hadn’t thought of it like that, "it's not really going to be my first date, right? It's just pretend."  

"Yeah," Stiles acquiesces. "Sure. I just wanted to make sure you were cool with it. You seemed kind of upset earlier."

He hums noncommittally, a little embarrassed at his reaction earlier.

"Why didn't you say anything before now?" When Derek doesn't answer, Stiles shifts restlessly. "You could have, you know. I would've offered my assistance." 

Derek raises one skeptical eyebrow. "Why would I need your assistance?" 

"You know," he sighs. "Because I've actually _gone_ on dates. If you want, like, advice or something. The offer still stands. I won't even tell Jackson and Isaac." 

"Thanks," Derek says stiltedly, shifting awkwardly for a minute before turning and starting to make his way out of the classroom. He doesn't know why Stiles is doing this, and that makes him edgy. "If we’re done here, I have to get to Econ. I don’t want to be late.” He intends to leave Stiles behind, but he just follows him, bumping into Derek as he narrowly misses tripping over a desk. "You need something else?" he asks, nostrils flaring.

“You know,” he says, gaze prickling on the side of Derek’s face, “originally I thought that you were the biggest asshole—" 

“You thought _I_ was an asshole?" Derek interrupts incredulously. "What did I ever do to you?"

“Dude, you announced that Kate was cheating on me in the middle of gym class. I thought you did it on purpose.”

“Yeah, well, for the record, I didn’t. And I thought you were an asshole too.”

"And now you've realized the error of your ways?" Stiles asks, sounding pleased. 

"No," he says, "I still think you're an asshole." 

"Ouch," Stiles groans, one hand over his heart. "That hurts. I don't think _you’re_ an asshole anymore. You're actually kind of a nerd." 

"I am not," Derek says, offended. 

"Please," Stiles snorts. "You carpool. You worry about being tardy. And don't think I didn't notice the complete Nancy Drew collection on your bookshelf." 

"That means you're a nerd too," Derek points out. 

"We can be nerds together," Stiles offers, turning to look at him with luminous eyes. 

Derek's words stall in his throat for a heart-stopping second, but thankfully he's saved from having to think up a witty remark when Cora shows up out of nowhere and punches him on the shoulder. "Hey," she says. He jumps and turns to look at her. 

"Wow," he says shakily, clearing his throat. "You’re actually talking to me in the hallway. Is there an apocalypse happening that I don’t know about?” 

“Shut up," she tells him. "I don't know what you did, but your evil little plan is working." 

"What?" Stiles asks, pressing up next to Derek, body a warm stripe down Derek's side. He shoves him away and Stiles stumbles, so Derek is forced to grab him again before he can fall, mouth pressed into an annoyed line. As soon as Stiles has his balance back, he sticks out his tongue and Derek huffs.

"Can you be serious for like two seconds?"

Stiles narrows his eyes. "You started it!"

"You were being aggravating."

"Said the kettle to the pot," he mutters under his breath.

Derek steps on his foot as he turns back towards Cora. "Well?"

She's watching him a little strangely, and he has to snap his fingers in front of her face to make her start talking. 

She glares at him. "I heard Kate talking about you. She thinks you’re... _hot,_ apparently," she says with distaste, nose wrinkled. "Although she might have just been trying to piss me off."

"What exactly did she say?" Stiles demands. "Verbatim.”

"I don't remember," Cora sighs loudly. "I don't have time for this; I just thought you should know. Bye loser." 

"Bye," Derek says faintly, turning to Stiles once she's all the way gone. "This. Doesn't make sense." 

"Sure it does," Stiles says flippantly. 

"But it doesn't," Derek insists. "All I did was glare at her. How could that be attractive?" 

"Trust me," Stiles mumbles. "Some people find that _very_ attractive." 

Derek frowns, still unsatisfied.

"Alright, we can work with this actually," Stiles tells him, straightening up. "This is perfect." 

"Care to let me in on your thoughts?" Derek asks. 

"All you have to do is play hard-to-get. Kate likes that apparently. This actually makes perfect sense. You know—she wants what she can't have. Kate's never been denied anything in her entire fucking life probably, so all we have to do is make her work for you and she'll want you more than anyone else. Logic." 

"I think there's a logical fallacy in there somewhere actually," Derek says, jumping as the bell rings shrilly overhead. “I’ve gotta go.”

"Don’t worry," Stiles says, “We’ll text you some tips tonight. Forget about buying her flowers."  

“Good,” he sighs, turning and trotting down the hallway in the opposite direction. “The flower plan sucked.”

“Fuck you!” Stiles shouts at his back. “I changed my mind, you _are_ an asshole!”

Derek flips him off and tries not to smile.

 


	5. The Other Argent

>> **From Stiles:** _Don’t automatically agree to a date with Kate if she asks u out again_

>> **From Stiles:** _But be nice about it_

>> **From Stiles:** _Say vague stuff keep her on her toes_

>> **From Stiles:** _Take it as s l o w as possible so she’ll lust after your hot bod ;)_

>> **From Jackson:** _Glare at her some more._

>> **From Stiles:** _lol I found a wikihow article on how to play hard to get_

>> **From Stiles:** _Theres a video_

>> **From Stiles:** _DONT BE CLINGY (def dont buy her flowers)_

>> **From Stiles:** _Let her come to you_

>> **From Stiles:** _Dont even look at her.  Pretend you dont know her and make her introduce herself again_

>> **From Stiles:** _Good? Txt if you want more. See you tomorrow_

>> **From Isaac:** _Srry not sure if stiles said you need playing hard to get tips or its hard for you to get tits ????_

* * *

Despite the very (un)helpful texts Derek was bombarded with last night, he’s not feeling very prepared for dealing with anything remotely regarding Kate when the morning comes. That's probably the exact reason Kate saunters up to Derek’s locker before the first bell even rings and launches into a diatribe about how fascinating she thinks lacrosse is. Derek just has that kind of luck. 

There are _so_ many things he’d rather be doing than listening to her voice. Things like napping, eating a granola bar in peace, or maybe banging his head repeatedly against his locker. 

"I didn't get a chance to introduce myself yesterday," she tells him, smiling demurely. "I'm Kate."

"I know," he says dumbly.

"Of course you do. And you're Derek, right?"

He nods. 

“Wow. How'd _you_ get a little sister like Cora?" Before he can even parse out how to answer _that_ backhanded compliment, she's talking again. "How long have you been playing lacrosse for?” she asks, leaning just a little bit closer, and Derek blinks uncertainly. “Not that long then?” she continues, undeterred. “I remember the first time I ever tried to play lacrosse; it was not pretty…”

Derek has no idea what to do. They never talked about exit strategies. They never talked about how to make Kate _stop_ talking. Also, the only stupid text message tip Derek can remember is the one where Stiles talked about his hot bod, which. Doesn’t help. 

At all.  

Kate cocks her head, mouth sticky with lip gloss, and Derek realizes she asked him a question and he has no idea what it was. 

“Uh. I have to get to class,” he tells her, tacking on a hurried, “sorry,” for good measure since all he did was glare at her last time. 

She laughs, throaty and jarring and gives him a pat on the cheek. “Okay, sweetie," she says. "We’ll talk later.” 

Somehow, his day just keeps getting worse. 

Harris has inexplicably decided that today is the perfect day to rearrange their seats and is enthusiastically shoving the seating chart in everyone’s face as they walk through the door. Derek strongly suspects that he’s just taking great joy in separating Stiles and Scott McCall (if the malicious glint in his eyes in anything to go by). 

Derek gets stuck near the back, directly behind Stiles and Erica Reyes. Derek doesn’t have a partner, which is perfectly fine with him. Erica and Stiles are the only two people in class he's even moderately friendly with anyway, so the seat would actually be pretty ideal if Erica wasn't practically _purring_ at the arrangement in front of him. For some reason it sets Derek's teeth on edge. 

He averts his eyes to the chalkboard, only to realize that he’d completely forgotten that they had homework to do last night. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, jerking wildly as a piece of crumpled up paper pegs him in the forehead. Derek scowls and glances around at nearby students, but no one’s paying him the slightest bit of attention. With a healthy sense of trepidation he unfolds the paper and squints at the messy, barely legible scrawl which says... 

_You look like shit_

_< 3_

Derek huffs under his breath, crumpling the paper up and shoving it in his pocket. This time when he looks up, Stiles is turned around backwards in his seat, watching him with amusement. 

"Asshole," Derek mutters.  

"Seriously though," Stiles snorts. "Are you okay? Did you sleep at all?" 

"I'm fine." Stiles raises his eyebrows and Derek grudgingly elaborates. "I saw K—You Know Who," he quickly amends, just in case anyone is listening to their conversation, "this morning." 

Stiles's eyes widen at the news, but before he can say anything Harris snaps, "Stilinski! Face front," and he grudgingly turns back around. 

Derek sighs and ducks his head so he doesn't have to watch Erica bat her eyelashes at Stiles. He's half-heartedly digging through his backpack, just in case the homework he definitely didn't do somehow magically appears, when another, bigger scrap of paper, lands on his desk.  

 _KNEW YOU WERE A NERD,_ Stiles has written, and there's a crude drawing that looks vaguely like a Voldemort-Medusa hybrid. There’s a little caption under it that says _She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ though, so Derek figures it’s supposed to be Kate. He rolls his eyes but shoves the drawing in his front pocket of his backpack anyways before it can get confiscated.  

* * *

Derek's just started stirring the liquid in his beaker when the door to the classroom opens and a girl walks in. She's pretty, with long black hair and dimples that show as she smiles tentatively at the teacher. Derek sees Scott McCall staring unabashedly.  

"Ah." Mr. Harris says, glancing at a piece of paper on his desk. "Allison?"  

She nods, eyes downcast and Derek goes back to his experiment until he hears: "You'll be sitting next to Mr. Hale."  

His head jerks up again just as Mr. Harris announces:  "We have a new student, everyone. This is Allison Argent." 

Derek has to set his beaker down on the table so his suddenly sweaty palms don't drop it on the ground. Stiles swings around to stare at him, eyes wide, and Derek knows they're thinking the same thing. _Argent_.

"Hi," she says and Derek jerks again, almost knocks over a graduated cylinder full of acid. He adjusts his goggles hurriedly, shoving them up his forehead as he turns to see her. Now that he's actually looking, he can see the family resemblence between this girl and Kate. 

"Hi," he says belatedly, and the smile that had faded from her face returns full force. Derek doesn't know what to say. Has absolutely no idea what to say. He's never been very good with strangers and now he's expected to be lab partners with Kate Argent’s relative? What if Kate knows about their plan and has sent her own spy in to do investigative work? Isn't that a thing? Is this some sort of watered-down version of corporate espionage?

" _So_ ," Stiles says loudly, effectively interrupting the panicked thoughts overrunning Derek's brain. "You just moved here?" 

"From Devenford Prep," she says, voice soft. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and Derek eyes her suspiciously. 

"Argent, huh? How are _you_ related to Kate?" Erica asks, brash as always, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. "You actually seem _nice_."

"Technically Kate's my cousin," she says. "But she's more like my older sister." 

"My condolences," Erica tells her, with the fakest smile Derek has ever seen.

Allison shrinks back a little bit before sitting up straighter, jaw set. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Stiles and Derek make eye contact again. The tension is suddenly so palpable Derek could probably cut it with his little glass stirrer thing. He clears his throat as Erica spins back around, blonde hair flipping over her shoulder.  

He's not sure how to explain to Allison why Erica wears red lipstick and insults like armor, isn't even sure it's his place to say anything; so he just tells her that the "Goggles and coats are in the back," and she smiles gratefully, if faintly, before pushing off of the stool.   

* * *

"She’s in my English class,” Isaac says, leaning unaffectedly up against some lockers. "She doesn't seem that bad." 

"Yeah, well neither did Kate," Jackson spits out. "We can't trust her." 

“But what if she knows about the burn book?” Isaac say. “She could help us.”

“We _can’t_ trust her.”

"She's my lab partner!" Derek groans plaintively. "What am I supposed to do?" 

" _Dude_ ," Stiles says sharply. "You do not get to complain about having a pretty girl as your lab partner. I have Erica Reyes. She's going to claw my fucking face off if I make a mistake." 

"She won't. She likes you," Derek says and _why_. Why did he say that. Why did he make Stiles aware of that fact when he obviously had no idea. Why does he even _care_ if Stiles knows or not? 

"What do you mean she likes me," Stiles splutters. "What—" 

"Nothing—" 

"What, you can't just say that and then pretend you didn't say it!" Stiles groans.  

“Yes I can.”

"Can we _focus_ ," Jackson growls. "No more talking about the plan in class, we can't have Allison overhearing and telling Kate." 

"If you guys don't shut up, I think Kate’s going to hear for herself," Isaac says, nodding towards the other end of the hallway where Kate has just come out of a classroom, flanked by two other cheerleaders, Jennifer and Kali. Stiles blanches and stumbles a few feet away, shoving his head in a locker just as Kate turns toward them. Her eyes lock on Derek and she starts to make a beeline towards him. He sees the moment that she registers who he's with because her smile gets more fixed, eyes flitting between them all. 

Derek gives her an awkward wave and turns to go in the other direction, but her fingers grip his jacket before he even gets two feet. 

"Hey," she says sweetly, like a fucking snake. "I was wondering when I'd run into you again." 

"Oh. Yeah, well, here I am." he chuckles nervously, all too aware of Isaac's eyes on them. She seems to be aware too because she turns around to look at him. Isaac just barely manages being caught by dropping down to tie his shoe. Jackson's already disappeared. 

"How do you know them?" Kate asks suspiciously. Derek wouldn't even realize it if he wasn't expecting it. "Are you guys friends?" 

"They're assholes," Derek says automatically. "I had to—Jackson's the co-captain of the lacrosse team and—" 

"Oh," she says, face clearing up. She flashes her teeth at him. “I forgot you were so _athletic_. I noticed you at practice.”

"Really?" Derek tries not to sound so dubious, but he's pretty sure he fails. He wonders what Kate saw because Stiles takes great joy in reminding him that he spends 60% of practices getting slammed into the ground.

She nods, smile turning sharper. "I bet you're a good dancer too."

“Uhm." His mind is spinning from the jump in topics. "I’m okay.”

“Wanna prove it?”

“Huh?”

“Do you want to _prove_ it?” she asks again, voice harder.

“How would I do that?” he asks warily. 

“The Preserve Party, silly,” she says, perky again in an instant. Derek frowns. “You’ve never been to the Preserve Party?” Kate asks, eyebrows climbing up on her forehead. 

“No, no, of course I have,” he lies. “I just—didn’t think you’d want to go with me.”

Kate grins. “Of course I do!”

“Okay, well—” he stops short, peripherals catching sight of Stiles again. A random text flashes through his mind: _say vague stuff keep her on her toes._  “I'm actually already going with some friends, but maybe I'll see you there?"

“Oh.” She grins. "You'll definitely see me there." She blows him a kiss and saunters away to be with her friends. 

"Dude," a voice sounds from behind him as soon as she’s out of sight. “Did you actually get a date with her just by pretending you _didn't_ want to date her?" His breath ghosts over the slope of Derek’s neck. Derek’s fingers twitch. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

He scowls. “What the _hell_ is a preserve party?”


	6. The Preserve Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON KAMD: 
> 
> "Dude," a voice sounds from behind him as soon as she’s out of sight. “Did you actually get a date with her just by pretending you _didn't_ want to date her?" His breath ghosts over the slope of Derek’s neck. Derek’s fingers twitch. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”
> 
> He scowls. “What the _hell_ is a preserve party?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell yeah hell yeah this is one of my favorite chapters so far!!!! Note the rating change *wink wink* !

“The preserve party,” Stiles announces from the middle of his living room, “Is _the_ place to be this weekend.”

“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it,” Jackson sighs snottily from the couch and Stiles raps on his white board stand with a dry erase marker like it's a gavel. Derek glares. 

“Lydia Martin puts it on since her family owns a few miles of the land that leads into her backyard,” Stiles tells him, pointing to a map he’d printed out and stuck to his board. “It’s really awesome.”

“What do you do?” he asks skeptically.

“You hang out, you dance, you talk,” Stiles says. “It’s usually on the night of a full moon and Lydia strings up all of these really cool fairy lights—”

“There’s also alcohol,” Isaac points out. “Kate will probably be drinking alcohol.”

“I don’t drink,” Derek says nervously. 

“That’s cool; that’s fine,” Stiles says hurriedly, marking something else on his board. Derek isn’t even sure why he has a board. “It doesn’t matter. I have a plan.”

Isaac grins wolfishly. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“I can,” Derek grumbles. 

* * *

Derek is wearing a purple Henley that Cora forced him to buy, jeans that he hasn’t worn since Freshman year, and a leather jacket that Isaac threw at his face. He feels ridiculous. 

“You look hot!” Stiles tells him enthusiastically, standing back to admire his handiwork. Cora's been watching them with a little glint in her eyes that Derek is very suspicious about, but at Stiles's words, she and Isaac gag at the same time and then laugh at each other. 

Derek is going to kill someone. At least Jackson didn't deign to grace them with his lovely presence.

He moves closer to the mirror and tries to fix his hair, but catches sight of Isaac watching Cora surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. Before he can spin around and put a stop to whatever the hell is happening behind him though, Stiles is suddenly pressed up against him, fingers briefly tangling with Derek’s as he parts his hair a different way. 

By the time Derek manages to extract himself from his hold, Cora and Isaac have disappeared from the room which is, just, _great_. 

“Will you stop it?” Derek grits out, scowling over at Stiles. Of course he looks perfect in dark skinny jeans and a nice shirt that stretches over his shoulders. “I look stupid. This isn’t going to work.”

“You look fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Trust me. You’ll go, you’ll have some food, you’ll dance with Kate once or twice, you’ll leave. Not that hard.”

“Dance,” Derek repeats, swallowing convulsively. He physically feels himself paling at the reminder. “Right.”

Something must show on his face because Stiles falters, brows furrowing a little. "You okay?"

Derek hesitates on the cusp of waving away Stiles's question—remembers the offer for _assistance_ Stiles had extended earlier in the week. If there was ever a time he needed assistance, now is it. "I..." Fuck, he feels ridiculous even _thinking_ about asking Stiles for advice, but he doesn't want to mess the plan up even more than he already has. “I can’t dance,” he grits out. 

"Yes, you can," Stiles scoffs.

"No, I _can't_ ," he snaps. “How is there even going to be music at the party? I thought it was in the preserve!”

“That’s…actually a good question,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “I don’t have an answer.”

“Stiles—”

“ _Derek._ Chill out." He rolls his eyes. "You’ll be _fine_. Dancing isn’t that hard.”

“It is,” he insists, raking a hand through his hair and messing up whatever Stiles had done to it. He sees the other boys’ eyes flash in irritation. “I’m not good at—that.”

“Grinding?” Stiles asks in amusement and Derek staggers back a step. 

“ _Grinding_? I have to _grind_ on her??” 

Stiles lets out a laugh. “Well what did you think I meant when I said dancing? Hate to break it to you man, but people don’t go out there to waltz.”

“This isn't going to work," Derek mutters angrily, cheeks flushing red. "I—I...I'm not going to be able to do this—I’m—I’m not _like_ you guys. I can't—”

“Dude,” Stiles interrupts. He approaches Derek like he’s a skittish animal, eyes wide and hands raised. “Just. _Breathe_.” His hands land on Derek’s shoulders, warm and large, and the weight grounds him somewhat. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed. 

“It’s cool,” Stiles tells him easily, eyes flitting all over his face. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to dance with her. Okay? Yes, it would probably really help the plan and peak her interest even more, but you don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

“I know,” he grumbles. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Stiles says after a second, taking a step back. Derek nods wordlessly, eyes downcast. “Have you ever danced with someone like that?”

He scoffs. “What do you think?”

“I think…you haven't,” he answers slowly. “I think that’s probably why you’ve psyched yourself out so much.”

“I haven’t psyched myself out. I’m not good at it—”

“How do you know if you’ve never done it?” Stiles asks pointedly. “Can I ask you another question?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek says exasperatedly. 

“Would it make you feel better if you did it with someone else first?”

He narrows his eyes. “Someone like who?”

“Like me? Maybe? I mean—we could dance together a few times at the party if you wanted to get your footing. I could, you know, give you pointers.”

Derek’s heart speeds up at the thought. “You can teach me how to dance with Kate?” he asks. 

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “But, I mean, like I said. No pressure. We dance a few times, and you see how confident you feel. No one’s going to force you to dance with her.” He grins. “We’re just forcing you to talk to her.”

"You can't laugh at me," he says suspiciously. "Or, like, write an article in the school newspaper about the gyration habits of nerds."

"Does that sound like something I would do?" Stiles asks, looking offended.

"You wrote an editorial about circumcision and the student body's perception of it. I think that definitely sounds like something you'd do."

"You've read my stories?" Stiles asks, lighting up. "What did you think?"

" _Stiles_ —"

"Oh. Right. The party." He crosses his heart with a finger. "No laughing at you. And no articles; I promise."

"And no telling Jackson and Isaac."

"Deal."

Derek swallows nervously, palms sweaty for a completely different reason now. “That’s—I think that would be okay then,” he says carefully. “If we danced.”

Stiles nods, taking another step backward and hitching his thumb over his shoulder. “Alright, well, I’d better go peel Isaac off your sister—”

“Shut the hell up—”

He laughs. “Kidding! Mostly. I’ll find you at the party, alright?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “It’ll be awesome. Just have some fun.”

Derek nods numbly, still not entirely sure what he’s just gotten himself into. 

* * *

"So...?" Cora asks later, while Derek's nervously fussing around with his outfit again. 

"What," Derek asks.

"You know what."

He stares at her blankly.

"What's going on with you and Stiles?" 

"Nothing," he frowns.

“Oh please," she scoffs, pushing off of the doorframe and coming further into the room.

"Uh—I don't—know what you're talking about?"

"I'm not an _idiot_. I saw you two earlier." She waves a hand. "With the flirting and the _touching_..."

Derek stares at her in shock. "What?"

"Are you seriously denying it?"

" _Yes_ ," he says, so vehemently that Cora actually looks a little taken aback. "I hate him."

She clearly doesn't believe him. "Right."

He sighs roughly, turning away from his sister. "Cora, just drop it."

"But—"

"Drop it!"

"God, Derek, I didn't even know you _liked_ guys like that!" she sounds really confused all of a sudden and kind of upset and Derek’s heart drops into his stomach, blood rushing to fill his cheeks. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

“I’m—it’s—I—”

“I don’t care about that stuff,” she mutters. Derek stares unseeingly at his reflection. "And it's not like I'm going to tell anyone—" 

"There's nothing to tell!"

She gives a frustrated grunt. "Fine. Have fun at the party, moron. And if you want any help with Stiles—"

"I don’t,” Derek mutters, ducking his head back down. “We’re barely even friends. He’s annoying.”

"Whatever.” She stares at him for another minute longer before stalking away and leaving him to rest his hot forehead against the mirror in peace.

* * *

When Derek finally works up the courage to leave his room and head over to the Martins’ house, the party’s been going on for almost an hour. He makes his way nervously around the side of her house, hands shoved in his pockets, the sound of bass beats and general chatter already reaching his ears. The very first thing he sees is two people making out in Lydia’s pool, and he has half a mind to turn around and go back to the safety of his Camaro—

But Isaac barrels into him and throws an arm around his shoulder. 

“ _Derek_ ,” he groans, obviously somewhat intoxicated already. “I’m _so_ glad you’re here. What took you so long? Is Cora with you?” 

Derek glares at him and doesn't deign to answer that question.

“Have some pretzels,” Isaac says, seemingly realizing he's said the wrong thing and dragging him over to a table set up on the patio. Derek obligingly takes a handful of snacks, mostly for something to do with his hands. 

“Thanks,” he says belatedly. 

“No problem,” he laughs, slapping him on the back. “I’m gonna try to find Kate!” 

And then Derek is left alone. 

Feeling completely out of place. 

The back gate is open, and a path of lights leads deeper into the forest, which seems to be the source of most of the noise. Derek looks around surreptitiously, grabbing a few more pretzel sticks so he doesn’t look stupid. Lydia Martin suddenly swirls into existence before him, tray of drinks balanced on one hand. 

“Want one?” she asks brightly. 

“Um—” he chokes on the pretzel he’d just shoved in his mouth and swallows hastily, clearing his throat. “No. No thanks.”

“Hm,” she hums, eyeing him appraisingly. Derek fidgets nervously. 

“Nice party,” he tells her, and suddenly she’s smiling at him. 

“Yes, it is,” she sighs, looking around approvingly. Her smile falls off her face when she catches sight of something else though, and Derek follows her positively murderous gaze to where a dripping wet Greenberg is trying to climb up some latticework so he can (presumably) jump off the roof and into the pool. “Enjoy yourself,” she says distractedly, before she’s whipping away to yell at him. 

Derek decides to try his luck out in the preserve, where at least he can hide behind a tree or something if worse comes to worse. He wanders around the pool, eyes downcast, and crunches along the uneven ground of the forest until he comes to a clearing. Quite a few people are lounging off to the sides, talking up against trees with a drink in their hands or reclining on blankets on the ground, but the middle of the clearing is filled with a writhing mass of people, music so loud his skin is buzzing. 

This was _such_ a bad idea. 

But, of course, just as he turns to leave, a hand grabs him by the wrist and spins him around and Derek is faced with a flushed Stiles, smiling widely at him. 

“Dude,” he says. “You made it! I thought you might have decided to skip out.”

“No,” Derek tells him. “I’m here.”

“Obviously.” Stiles tugs on his arm. “You wanna?”

The tone of his voice makes Derek swallow thickly. “You want to dance?” he asks weakly. “Already?”

“No time like the present!” He exclaims, tugging on him again. This time Derek lets himself be pulled toward the impromptu dance floor. “You still want to do this, right?”

“Yeah,” Derek says faintly, although he’s certain this is going to be one of those embarrassing incidents that make him wince every time he thinks about it.  

And then they’re there, people enveloping them at all sides, and bass rhythm thumping. Derek feels the temperature rise almost immediately, and he tugs nervously on the collar of his shirt. 

“Come here,” Stiles calls to him, and Derek takes a hesitant step forward, almost swallowing his tongue when Stiles closes the distance between them and presses back against his front. “Okay,” he says, voice low and smooth in his ear, “so, generally, when you dance, you want to be touching.”

“Yeah,” Derek tries to say, but it comes out way too quiet and he isn’t sure if Stiles even heard him. The song transitions into something else, something a little slower and steamier, and he turns his head to see Stiles's tilted back with a wolfish grin. 

“This is perfect,” he tells Derek, and doesn’t even warn him before he’s moving, fluidly and sensually, hips nudging back against Derek’s and jesus _fucking_ christ, he cannot do this. 

He feels like everyone’s watching him; feels like they’re judging him for his jerky dance moves and awkward head bobs. There’s no way he’s going to be able to do this with Kate. 

“Stop thinking,” Stiles tells him, just barely audible over the noise of everything else, and then there’s a warm hand on one of his hips. “Forget about everything else,” he hears, and he closes his eyes against the sensations that drip down his spine. “Listen to the beat.”

He makes it sound so easy, but Derek is 1000% sure he looks like a puppet whose strings have just been cut. “I told you, I’m not—good at this,” he says roughly and Stiles pulls away and somehow manages to switch their spots so Derek is in front and Stiles is a warm presence at his back, hands like brands on his skin. 

“Dude, just follow me, okay?” he says, lips against his ear. Derek is powerless to do anything but nod, which is really unfortunate because Stiles starts rolling against him—one two _three_ —strong thrusts that force Derek to move along with him. He can feel Stiles’s hot breath against his neck and he has _no_ idea what do with his hands. 

“Good job,” Stiles says after what seems like forever, jolting him slightly. “Wanna try something else?”

“Wha—uh. Sure,” Derek says and Stiles slides his way around him until they’re face to face and inches apart, Stiles’s thigh slipping between Derek’s. 

“Put your hands on my hips,” he tells him. “And keep dancing.”

It’s actually easier with Stiles in front of him to look at. He doesn’t feel exposed to the rest of the party-goers, finds it easier to forget himself and move to the beat when he’s focused on the heat building between them. Stiles is a restless being, tosses his head back often and moves his hips in jabs and digs and shimmies, slides his hands up Derek’s sides and pulls him closer, smiling breathlessly. Derek finds himself with the World’s Most Inconvenient Boner; rationalizes it away by acknowledging this is the first time he's been up close and personal with another human being; wonders how people do this without grinding their dick on some innocent person; worries what Stiles is going to say if he happens to slide up against it (which is seeming more and more likely). 

A drop of sweat slides down Stiles’s temple and Derek tracks it all the way down to his collarbone, resists the urge to lean in and suck by tightening his hold on Stiles’s hips. 

God, what is _wrong_ with him?

“Dude, you’re good at this,” Stiles tells him, pressing their chests together to talk in his ear. Derek instinctively shifts his hips back. “Knew you would be,” he practically purrs and Derek’s breath hitches. 

“Cool,” he manages to choke out, but in the space it took him to think of a response, Stiles has somehow maneuvered his hips so they’re shoving up against Derek’s again. He’s all too aware of his dick pressing up against the denim, wishes desperately that it would just go soft—at least until he’s done being this close to Stiles.

“Ready to try again?” Stiles asks him, wicked glint in his eye. 

“Wh—what do you mean?” Derek asks, bewildered, but Stiles is already spinning in his hold, grabbing one of Derek’s arms and pulling it across his middle, arching back to make contact and that’s it—

He’s done, he can’t—this is the most intimate position he’s ever been in and it’s Derek’s dick to Stiles’s ass. There’s no way he’s not going to know how this is affecting him. Sure enough, it happens seconds later, when Stiles is grinding back against Derek, head resting on his shoulder and hand trying to coax Derek’s hip into a roll. Stiles’s hips stutter, shoving back only twice more and then he’s stilling and turning his head to look at Derek with his mouth loose and knocked open. 

Derek feels all the blood that’s not currently in his dick rush to his face. 

“S—Sorry,” he stutters, pulling his hands away and staring hard at the ground. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s cool,” Stiles says hurriedly, which was not what Derek was expecting to hear at all. He moves closer, drops his voice lower which only serves to make Derek’s dick twitch. Fuck fuck _what the fuck_. “I’m—I get it. Trust me, I get it.”

“I didn’t mean to molest you,” Derek says anyways. His mother would _kill him_ if she knew what had just happened. 

Stiles laughs. “I promise you, you did not molest me,” he says, hand coming up to squeeze Derek’s arm. “It happens to the best of us.”

Derek doesn’t think it’s exactly normal for one guy to be reassuring another guy that his accidental boner is completely fine, but he’s not complaining. At least Stiles isn’t freaked out, which is honestly what he’d been expecting. 

“You wanna keep going?” Stiles asks him, and the shadows make his eyes seem darker, hungry. 

“I should find Kate,” Derek tells him, desperate to get some distance and just breathe. “I need to get home soon anyways.”

“Yeah, alright,” he murmurs, swaying backwards, and Derek is so frazzled, he imagines that he even sounds a little disappointed. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, turning around and shoving his way out of the mass of sweaty bodies. 

He does end up dancing with Kate for one song, and he doesn’t slip into the rhythm as easily as he did with Stiles—spends the majority of the time feeling awkward in his skin and hoping no one's watching him too closely. Kate seems like she's enjoying herself though, so he counts it as a win.

He cuts out early, waves stiltedly to Lydia as he makes his way back to his car, and doesn't fully relax until he's back in his room, shedding his ridiculous clothes. He's just peeled his jeans off his legs and changed into his favorite pair of sweats when his phone beeps. 

 >> **From Stiles:** _Hey man you still around??_

>> **From Derek:** _I'm at home._

>> **From Stiles:** _noooo gOdammit jackson is the only other person i know who hasnt been drinking_

>> **From Stiles:**   _if you cant take me home ill hve to ride w/ him_

>> **From Stiles:** _or my dad !!!!_

Derek thinks about the benefits of leaving the comforts of his home and going to get Stiles, actually seriously considers it for a second, but ultimately—

>> **From Derek:** _Don't puke in the porsche :)_

>> **From Stiles:** _fuck you so hard dude_

Derek knows that Stiles doesn’t mean it like that. It’s just how Stiles talks, it’s not like, a declaration of intent or anything. Derek _knows_.

The thing is; knowing doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it, it just means he feels guilty when he does.  And Derek does—he pictures Stiles saying that; whispering it in his ear; moaning it in a low, gravelly voice while his dick is tenting the front of his briefs.

He re-reads the words, lips parting, face flushing, and—

 _Fuck_. 

He flings his phone aside, and buries his face in one of his pillows to groan plaintively. He’s not—just because he might be a little more attracted to Stiles than he originally thought doesn’t mean Cora was right or anything. It _doesn't_. It just means his feelings enjoy making about-faces. In a month he’ll probably like asparagus. 

Unfortunately, the thought of asparagus does nothing to quell his growing arousal and he gives into to the urge to palm himself through his sweats, dick filling up a little more at the contact. 

He’s _so_ going to hell for this. 

Derek gives up any semblance of control pretty quickly, feeling like he’s been on edge for most of the night. He flips over so he’s laying on his back; slides his hand easily into his sweats and give his cock a squeeze. He’s almost fully hard by now, just from the novelty of thinking about Stiles, and. 

He throws an arm over his eyes, giving in to the urge to jack himself a few times. He gathers up some of the precome leaking out of him and spreads it all over, thrusting up into his fist once— _twice_ —three times—

He feels tight, wound up already, and sucks in a breath between his teeth on a particularly good stroke. 

He wonders what it would be like if Stiles wanted him—if he _wanted_ to use his stupid fucking mouth on him; curl his tongue around his cock and coax his orgasm out of him—touch him like he did in the woods but for longer, with more intent; pressing him back against a tree, lips grazing over his ear, hands sliding down his sides—Stiles kneeling in the dirt and opening the fly of his jeans, bass beats reverberating in the air—Stiles's face, smiling wicked and shadowed by the moon while his fingers slide low to tug on Derek's balls, catch on his rim, lips parting. He wants to be teased until he’s gasping and Stiles is smirking down at him and saying _I’m gonna fuck you so hard, dude_ —

He comes with a little hitch of breath, hand moving frantically on his dick, back arched like a bowstring.

There’s a moment where his mind is mercifully blank and all he’s focused on is the way his heart is thundering in his chest and the intermittent squeaks of his ceiling fan. 

Then he hears Cora thump past his room, on the way to the bathroom, and he’s snapped back to reality so fast he almost falls off his bed in his attempt to clean the drying come off of him and pull his pants back up before someone decides to walk into his room. 

There’s a text message from Stiles waiting for him when he finally gets himself squared away and picks up his phone, and his face burns red with the knowledge of what he just did. 

God, what was he thinking? What would Stiles say if he knew? If he knew that Derek had been thinking about him—about them, _together_? 

He shakes the thought away, ignoring his churning gut as he thumbs open the message. 

>> **From Stiles:** _hey howd evrythng go with kate?_

Derek texts back a simple, _Fine_ , and pulls his blanket up to his chin.


	7. I Spy

He sleeps horribly, alternating between restless tossing and strange, frenzied dreams where Stiles and Cora were chasing him through a maze.

He wakes up unsettled, with a scowl and a minor headache.  

“You look horrible,” Cora says when he trudges downstairs. He gives her the angriest glare he can muster while pouring milk into his cereal bowl. 

The rest of breakfast is mainly spent avoiding Cora’s inquisitive eyes, which only serves to make him more irritable. He’s not having a crisis. He’s not. Sure, maybe he might like penises a bit more than originally expected, and maybe his sexuality has been in the process of doing an illegal u-turn for the past few years, but. He’s not having a crisis. 

The only reason he’s a little dazed is because Cora’s the first person to ever call him out on it.

He doesn’t like Stiles though. That may be the only thing he isn’t confused on right now, regardless of what his sister and her stupid fucking smirk think. 

Thinking someone is kind of attractive does not mean he _likes_ them.

True to form, his weekend continues to be abysmal. Cora tries to enquire coyly about Isaac and gets mad when Derek calls him a trouble-maker. His mother gets mad at them for being mad at each other and he has to work overtime at Sal's. He burns the popcorn he tries to make on Sunday and has to open every window in the house to make his father stop complaining about the smell. He has to write an English essay and it takes him three times longer than it should because he just can't _focus_. 

When he wakes up on Monday morning, he's hard, but any hope of an orgasm flies out the window when he realizes that Monday means morning lacrosse practice. 

Which means Stiles. 

His eyes snap to Isaac's leather jacket draped innocuously on his computer chair and he feels suddenly queasy. Last time he'd seen Stiles he'd been wearing that jacket and Stiles had been all over him. He'd gotten a boner and Stiles had—fuck, Stiles had felt it. 

Stiles knew that Derek had gotten a boner because of _him_. And yeah, he didn't seem too upset about it when it happened, but who's to say he hasn't changed his mind? Who's to say it won't be totally awkward and weird? Fuck, it's totally going to be weird. Derek has no idea what you're supposed to say to someone in these situations. 

He rolls out of bed with a groan. 

* * *

"Hey, Derek," someone calls behind him a millisecond after lacrosse practice ends. For one heart-stopping second he thinks it's Stiles, but then he realizes that the voice is all wrong. He turns around to see an earnest looking Scott McCall running towards him. "Hey," he pants. "Hi." 

Derek looks at him blankly, trying to figure out why Scott—who has never once in all their years of schooling expressed any interest in becoming friends with him—feels the need to delay Derek’s shower by talking to him now. 

"I'm Scott? McCall? " His face drops slightly. "I'm Stiles's best friend! He hasn't mentioned me...?" 

He looks so genuinely upset that Derek almost wants to laugh. Instead he straightens up and swings his lacrosse stick up onto his shoulder. “I know who you are,” he tells him. “We have a few classes together.”

"Yeah, well _I_ know that,” Scott scoffs, smiling dopily. “I just didn’t know if _you_ knew that.”

Derek nods. “I know that.”

“Cool.”

They stand there awkwardly for a few more moments and Scott shifts slightly on his feet. “So. I saw that you got paired with the new girl in Chemistry.” 

“Allison?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, eyes going dreamy. “Allison.” 

Derek quirks an eyebrow. 

“So—do you guys, like, talk about anything?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” He digs the toe of his cleat into the grass. Derek seriously considers abandoning him in lieu of the showers. He feels disgusting. “So you don’t know…howshe’srelatedtoKate or anything?”

It takes Derek a minute to figure out what Scott even said, but when he does, the urge to roll his eyes is almost debilitating. “She’s her cousin,” he tells him slowly. 

“Her cousin!” Scott sounds equal parts dismayed and overjoyed. “That means it would be okay if I…I mean, I wouldn’t bother trying to if they were like sisters or something—”

“She said Kate is like her older sister,” Derek supplies helpfully. 

“Oh.” Scott looks so suddenly crestfallen that Derek kind of feels bad. “Do you think it’s breaking the bro-code then? Considering Stiles’s history with Kate?”

“I am literally the worst person to ask about that,” Derek tells him flatly. 

“Oh.”

Derek sighs loudly, giving one last wistful glance at the locker room entrance, before turning more fully towards Scott. “Look, if Allison really likes you, then—”

“But I don’t know if she does. That's why I need your help.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Scott’s brow collapses even further. “I haven’t exactly spoken to her,” he says and Derek gives up all pretense of patience. 

“Look: I have to get showered and get to class. Why don’t you talk to Stiles about this? He’s your best friend, right?”

“Yeah, but he hates Kate. Like, a lot.”

“Allison isn’t Kate,” Derek says.

"I know that," Scott says. "But Stiles is convinced she's like some kind of evil minion or something."

Derek shrugs. For all they know, she could be. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Would you just talk to her for me?" Scott asks, and then turns legitimate puppy-dog-eyes onto him. Derek's _no_ gets stuck in his throat. "Just find out if she thinks I'm cute, or what her type is? Please? I would totally owe you one."

"I...I'm not sure how I would..."

Scott's lower lip pokes out and _trembles_. "Please?"

He huffs. "Fine," he grumbles, and then skirts around him and makes a beeline for the field house before Scott can come up with something else to say. 

"Thanks!" he hears calling after him. He turns around briefly, sees Scott standing there with another goofy smile on his face, and this time he does roll his eyes. 

And then promptly trips over someone. 

“Fuck,” he curses, twisting his ankle and hitting the ground hard. He hears his lacrosse stick connect with someone’s shin and he groans out a breathy, “Sorry, crap, sorry,” as he struggles to get wind back in his lungs. 

Then Stiles’s panicked face is swimming in front of his eyes. “Shit, are you hurt?” he asks frantically, and Derek’s suddenly aware of warm hands patting ineffectively over his chest, pressing over his ribs and sliding down his sides. “You can’t be hurt, we need you to be on the team for the plan to work,” Stiles is muttering, more to himself than Derek.

“I tripped over _you_?” he wheezes out, twitching when Stiles’s fingers press into the dip of his hipbone. 

“Bulldozed,” Stiles corrects, eyes flashing up to meet his for a second. “You bulldozed me. I’m going to have bruises.”

“I’m not sorry anymore.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh and takes his hands away. Derek immediately misses them, and then flushes to the tips of his ears when he realizes this. He's a little scared to look at Stiles in the face, scared to see disgust or pity in his eyes, but when he finally screws up the courage to look, Stiles looks exactly the same as he always does. Maybe a little more worried than usual, but there's nothing that suggests he's harboring ill feelings towards Derek for his miscreant dick which is just. Completely unexpected and probably a little strange, but Derek doesn't care. Something unclenches in his chest.

“You’re not hurt?” Stiles asks again. 

“My ankle, a little bit,” Derek admits as he heaves himself into a standing position. “But it’s not bad. You?”

“I might’ve broken a rib,” he complains, still sprawled on the ground. His legs look really long from Derek’s angle.

“Shut up,” he tells him, extending a hand to pull him up. He yanks a bit too hard—half out of spite, half out of something he’s determinedly not looking too closely at—and Stiles stumbles, body colliding with Derek’s. 

“Whoa,” he huffs out, breath hot on Derek’s cheek. He takes a deliberate step back, fingers skittering fleetingly on Derek’s bicep. “You’re. Really sweaty.”

“Sorry,” Derek says, mouth twisting in embarrassment. _Fuck_. He probably smells horrible. 

“No, no,” he says hurriedly, eyes flashing up, down, up, down. “It’s good.” 

Derek feels the back of his neck prickle. “Oh.”

“I mean,” Stiles chokes, whole face turning pink. He takes another step back. “I didn’t mean it’s good that—I meant it’s fine. It’s not a problem. That you’re sweaty.” He closes his eyes. “Uh—”

“Bilinski!” Coach shows up out of nowhere, face twisted in frustration. “Are you or are you not going to interview me about the budget cutbacks? We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago!"

“Oh, yeah, sure, uh, sure,” he says, still obviously flustered. Derek bites his cheek and tries not to grin. 

"Time is money, and money is being wasted!" Finstock proclaims, and then leans forward and lowers his voice. He eyes flit around the field like he thinks the superintendent is lurking behind the bleachers. "Why don't we take this to my office? I'll give you the scoop."

Stiles waves a handheld recorder weakly. "Can't wait."

“Good practice today, Hale,” Coach says, louder again, which—Derek definitely spent more time in the mud than on it, but he’s not going to argue. 

“Thanks,” he tells him, eyes slipping sideways to look at Stiles once more. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he echoes faintly, and Derek takes the opportunity for what it is and jogs away from them both and into the locker room. 

* * *

Allison Argent smells like cherry blossoms and smiles softly at Derek every time she sits down next to him. 

It’s weird. 

It's even weirder today, because after her customary smile she slips him a scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled on it. 

Derek blanches. "Um. I...is this yours?"

"No!" she says hurriedly, face pinking up. "Oh my God, _no_. That's Kate's number." In front of him, Stiles spins around in his stool so fast he falls off of it. "She asked me to give it to you. She was very interested when she found out you were my lab partner."

"Oh." Derek says, pocketing the paper carefully. "Well. Tell her thanks, I guess."

"I will," Allison says, giving him a sunny smile.

He spares a quick second to give Stiles a look that hopefully conveys _what the hell do I do with this_ because he has no idea what the text etiquette is for this kind of stuff. Does he wait a couple of hours? A couple of days?  Does he text her immediately??

He swallows nervously and then accidentally catches Scott McCall's eye, who gives a very pointed and obvious look at Allison. 

He groans. 

"You okay?" she asks, and…

He can't. He can't do it. Up until now, all they've talked about is their assignments and the weather. He can't just ask her what she looks for in a guy. He's going to have to work up to that. Goddammit.

"Fine," he settles on, giving her a tight smile. 

He's saved by his phone vibrating in his pocket and digs it out hurriedly. 

>> **From Stiles:**   _Dont text her yet!! Jackson wants to be there_

>> **From Derek:** _?? why_

>> **From Stiles:** _prob cause you looked like you were gonna throw up when Allison gave u the #. Don't text her. Meet at my house tonight_

* * *

 Stiles’s house isn’t as big as Derek’s, but it’s nice. Modest in size and bright; simple in it’s decorations. It looks like a home. 

Derek feels weirdly grateful to be allowed inside, even if he’s only there because nobody trusts him to text Kate by himself. 

“I ordered pizza,” Stiles tells him, taking him by the shoulders and bodily steering him away from the wall of pictures Derek had been heading for. 

“But—”

“No buts,” Stiles cuts him off firmly. “Embarrassing baby pictures are third-date material, at least.”

“We aren’t dating,” Derek points out. 

“ _Exactly_ ,” he hisses, shoving him towards the sofa and then plopping down next to him. 

Jackson and Isaac are already digging in, sodas in hand and plates loaded with four pieces each.

“Don’t get grease on the coffee table,” Stiles warns them and they all hum their agreement. 

An hour later finds them all clustered on Stiles’s living room carpet, Derek’s phone laying ominously in the middle of their circle.

“There’s a technique to this,” Jackson is saying and Stiles groans loudly and flops backwards. 

“We get it,” he says. “It’s an _art_.”

“Well it is,” Jackson responds snippily. 

“Maybe I just shouldn’t text her,” Derek says exasperatedly, only to be met with a chorus of panicked _No’s_! 

“She has to know you’re interested in her,” Isaac tells him. “Otherwise she’ll give up.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, pushing himself back up into a sitting position. “I’ve got it. Say: Hey Kate, it’s Derek.”

Derek stares at him in disbelief, but the others seem to be seriously considering his proposal. 

“It works,” Jackson says finally and Isaac nods solemnly in agreement. “It sounds like something you would say if you only had a minute to spare, but you wanted to give her your number anyways.”

“Are you kidding me?” Derek spits out. “That’s what I wanted to say _forty minutes ago_!” 

“No,” Stiles says patiently, and so _so_ obnoxiously. “You wanted to say, Hi, it’s Derek. That doesn’t flow as well.”

“You’re all delusional,” Derek grumbles, but takes his phone and types in what he’s been told to anyways. “Now what?”

“Now, we wait,” Isaac says, settling back on his hands to stare soulfully at the phone. 

Derek rolls his eyes and stretches out until he’s lying flat, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

Stiles pokes him in the leg. 

Derek ignores him. 

Stiles pokes him again. 

And again. 

And again. Again. _Again_. 

“What,” Derek grits out, “do you want.”

“Aw, come on,” Stiles snorts, laying down next to him. “Don’t sound so annoyed.”

“You annoy me.”

“You like it,” Stiles says, like he _knows_ , which is ridiculous because there isn't even anything _to_ know. Derek doesn’t answer. Stiles shifts around a little, arm grazing against Derek’s. “I spy,” he starts, and Jackson and Isaac both groan. “ _With my little eye_ ,” he continues, voice raised. Derek watches him out of the corner of his eye, amused despite himself. “Something…brown.”

“Your god-awful couch,” Jackson guesses and Stiles flips him off. 

“Fuck you, dude. I’m going again.”

“That was way too easy anyway,” Derek tells him. “At least make it a challenge.”

“Oh, you want a challenge?” Stiles asks, head lolling sideways to look at Derek. “I’ll give you a challenge.”

Derek raises his eyebrows in skepticism (ignoring Isaac’s very loud and put-upon sigh). Stiles narrows his eyes, thinking hard for a long minute before he relaxes and smiles, turning sideways to rest on his elbow and face Derek. “I spy, with my little eye, something green.”

It is, admittedly, a challenge, as there is nothing overwhelmingly green in the Stiliski’s living room. After _the accents on your ugly throw pillow_ , _the grass in that picture_ , and _the spine on that old book_ have all been guessed, with Stiles growing increasingly gleeful the longer they struggle, Derek starts to wonder if he even picked anything at all. 

He eyes him suspiciously, but Stiles just wiggles his eyebrows at him. “Give up yet?”

“No,” Derek scoffs, and sets about trying to figure out what Stiles is thinking. 

“ _I_ give up,” Jackson says, but everyone ignores him.

“Is it…” Derek trails off, surprised by the sudden intensity Stiles’s gaze seems to have taken on, but Stiles isn’t looking away—keeps staring at Derek, mouth quirked up at the edge—

“My eyes?” Derek guesses, heart speeding up at the implication and Stiles looks mildly surprised before he smiles shyly. 

“Yeah. You got it.”

"My eyes aren't really green," he says dumbly.

"There's green in them. Trust me, I would know."

Derek opens his mouth to say something—what, he has no fucking clue—but his phone chirps and everyone immediately zeroes in on it with laser-like focus. 

“What did she say?” Isaac demands. 

“She said…hey.”

“What, what is it?”

“No, that’s what she said. She said hey.”

“That’s it?” Stiles asks incredulously. “Hey? Nothing else?”

“Nope.”

“She put the ball in your court,” Jackson says, eyes flinty. “She wants to see what you’ll do.”

“Well, we have fourteen minutes to decide what to do,” Isaac says, looking at his watch. 

“Fourteen…?”

“Standard double-time,” Isaac says flippantly. “She took 7 minutes texting you back, so we're allowed to wait 14.”

Derek groans loudly. “Can’t I just tell her I’ll hang out with her next weekend or something?”

“Shut up, I’m thinking,” Jackson says. “We need to find a way to tell her you’ll try and hang out with her next weekend.”

Derek’s nostrils flare and Stiles collapses against his shoulder laughing.


	8. Don't Fuck Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a loooooong update for you guys! Also one of my favorite chapters! :)  
> Hope all of you who celebrate it had a good Thanksgiving!
> 
> **If you are familiar with the movie, part of this chapter was based off of the car scene between Brittany Snow (Kate) and Sophia Bush (Beth) at the beach party--which (funnily enough) is also the scene that sparked this whole fic! Hope you enjoy :) xoxo

The day of their first lacrosse game dawns gray and foggy, heavy thunderclouds threatening rain. Derek is almost catatonic with nerves. He doesn’t eat anything for breakfast and regrets it during morning practice.People that he doesn’t even know slap him on the back in the hallway and yell words of encouragement at him. Kate coyly tells him she’ll be cheering for him the loudest. The school is awash with maroon.

By the time he gets to Chemistry, his stomach is in a knot; his palms perpetually sweaty.

“Dude,” Stiles says, nose wrinkled. “You okay? You look like you’re gonna hurl.”

“I can’t do this,” he grits out, collapsing into his seat and letting his books spill out onto the desk. One slides too far and careens over the edge, hitting the floor with a sick _smack_. Derek stares at it forlornly from his seat and Stiles sighs grievously, but hops down to pick it up for him.

“You’ll do fine,” he tells him lowly while he’s crouched on the floor. “Coach wouldn’t be starting you if he thought you wouldn’t do good.”

Derek feels dizzy. He stares at Stiles, slack-jawed. “Coach is starting me?” he squeaks.

Stiles blinks up at him. “Oh—God, did you not know that? He didn’t tell you??”

“How did _you_ find out?” Derek asks breathlessly, hands gripping the edge of his desk so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Scott told me. I…dude, I really thought you knew. I’m so sorry. I hope that doesn’t freak you out too much.”

He drops Derek’s book back on his desk, hand hovering in the air for a second too long like he’s thinking about resting a reassuring hand on Derek’s. Derek wishes he would, but in the end he drops his hand back down to his side and clears his throat.

“You look like you’re freaking out too much.”

Derek shrugs jerkily, foot starting to jiggle on the rung of his stool. Stiles sighs heavily. “Derek, you’ll be _fine_. I’ve seen you play, remember? You’re good.”

“Yeah, good at being _tackled_ —which you never fail to remind me.”

“Shut up. You’re awesome, you big idiot. In fact, your sister and I have plans to hold up a sign proclaiming that fact.”

Derek looks up at him sharply. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“N- _ope_ ,” he says smugly, popping the p. He rocks back on his heels for a second before letting his hand fall on Derek’s shoulder. “Look, honestly, who cares if you win or lose? If you really suck that bad, Coach’ll just pull you out of the game.”

“Thanks,” he huffs dryly.

“Just have fun,” Stiles tells him, and then pulls him in for a surprise noogie. It makes Derek yell out indignantly and they both get glared at by Erica, but it reminds him a little of what Laura would do if she wasn't away at school and he relaxes a little bit.

Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.

“So,” Allison says brightly, sliding into her seat. “I hear you’ve got a game today.”

Derek groans and lets his head fall to the table.

* * *

As soon as the last bell of the day rings, Derek heads to the store to buy energy bars and some Gatorade and makes his way back to the locker room. He’s ludicrously early—the game doesn’t start for hours—but there’s something calming about being in the locker room when no one else is. It’s quiet, but not eerily so, and Derek takes a few deep breaths, trying to work himself down from the stupor he’d fallen into throughout the day. He feels a little panicked still, and is infinitely grateful he didn’t go home before the game and allow his family to work him up even more. He pulls out his textbook and starts on some math homework.

Two hours later, he's struggling fruitlessly with his lacrosse net, cursing under his breath and tugging on the knotted threads. Fuck, he’s so _stupid_. Why did he think tightening his strings was going to be a good idea right before a game? Why did he think he could do it himself? He knows nothing, absolutely _nothing_ about the proper way to tie a net, and now he’s screwed. Coach is totally gonna take him off first line for this. What kind of starting player doesn’t know how to tie their own net??

The locker room door squeaks open and Derek steels himself for the worst, because of course, this is the moment when some douchebag like Garrett would find him—but.

Stiles is the one who rounds the corner, hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Hey,” he says easily, if a little surprised, lips quirking up when he sees his net. “Having a little trouble there, buddy?”

“Were you looking for Scott?” Derek asks, instead of answering. “He’s not here yet.”

Stiles stares at him for a minute before nodding, scuffing the heel of his sneaker on the floor and sitting down next to Derek on the bench. “Guess I’ll just wait for him for a little while then. What are you doing here so early?”

Derek shrugs, staring morosely at his net. He’s such an idiot.

Stiles sighs and tugs the stick away from him. “Here, let me,” he says, fingers moving deftly to undo the catastrophe Derek had managed to create.

Derek blinks at him in confusion. “How do you—”

“I used to be on the lacrosse team,” Stiles says and Derek eyebrows fly up. “Yeah, I know, right? I wasn’t any good, though. Played a little like you,” he jokes, bumping Derek’s shoulder with his.

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Me and Scott tried out our Freshman year. He played; I warmed the bench. Jackson threatened us like every fucking day. God, I hated that guy.”

Derek hums, gaze mesmerized by the sure movements of Stiles’s hands, his strong fingers, and they sit in comfortable silence until Stiles is finished with his ministrations. Derek is mortified to realize that he’s half-hard and he flushes impressively, pulling his backpack up on his lap under the pretense of looking through it as he forces himself under control.

“There you go,” Stiles says gleefully, oblivious to Derek’s unease. His fingers brush lightly against Derek’s as he hands him the stick back. “Good as new.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” His smile fades slightly. “I should probably get going though. Gotta do a little homework before the game.”

“You’re coming?” Derek asks, surprised.

“Duh. I told you—me and Cora made a sign.”

“I thought you were joking,” he groans and Stiles laughs.

“Yeah, I am. But I did get you this.” He pulls a little magnet out from his hoodie pocket and hands it over, smirk on his face. It’s a simple dark blue background with white typeface. It says: **DON’T FUCK UP**. Derek chokes on a laugh. “I was gonna stick it on your locker,” he tells him sheepishly. “But. Here you are.”

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Online. I found a website and ordered like three boxes last year.”

“Of course you did."

“Don’t act like you hate it,” he warns him.

“I won’t.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Stiles stands up, stretching his spine out, and Derek is abruptly faced with a tantalizing strip of skin, dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his underwear and. He wants to lean forward and _taste_. He swallows heavily and looks away. Jesus.

“Do you want me to tell Scott you were looking for him?” he asks.

“Oh,” Stiles looks startled suddenly, for some unknown reason. “No—no, don’t bother.” He laughs shortly. “I’ll catch him after the game, seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” He says, smiling softly, and Stiles smiles back, standing awkwardly in front of him for another few moments before he huffs and takes a step back.

“See ya. Good luck in the game.”

Derek sighs, shaking his head. “I don't know why I even agreed to this. My sister's never going to let me forget this."

Stiles snorts, jogs backwards out of the locker room and just barely misses tripping over someone's forgotten bag. "Dude, _I'm_ never going to let you forget this. Don't fuck up." He winks. "I'll be watching."

Derek spends a few minutes smiling to himself like a complete dork after Stiles leaves, alternating between staring at the door and at the magnet that’s still clutched in his hand. No one's ever given him a good luck present before. It's nice. Stiles is nice. Even if he _is_ infuriating 90% of the time. Coach Finstock bangs in unexpectedly and Derek’s grin immediately falls off his face, but the damage is done. Coach Finstock takes a look around, seemingly comes to the conclusion that Derek was smiling at him, and then offers one back. It’s the most supremely awkward moment of Derek’s life, and he’s relieved when Danny Mahealani strolls in almost immediately afterwards, headphones in his ears and Coach turns his attention towards him.

Derek sticks the magnet on his locker and starts getting ready.

* * *

“Stiles was looking for you earlier,” he tells Scott, once everyone’s mostly dressed.

Scott gives him a weird look. “He was?”

“Yeah,” Derek falters. “Is that—he said not to worry about telling you, but—”

“Was something wrong?” Scott asks, eyebrows still furrowed. Derek is very confused. They’re best friends, aren’t they? What’s so strange about his message?

“I—don’t know. He gave me a magnet,” Derek offers. “Maybe he wanted to give you one too.”

Scott stares at him for a moment longer before rolling his eyes. “Dude,” he says pointedly, smacking Derek on the back. “Stiles _never_ visits me before games. He hates the locker room.”

Derek stares after him, unsure what he’s supposed to take from that. 

* * *

Stiles and Cora don’t have a sign, but unfortunately, Kira does.

It’s humongous and blocks almost everyone’s view behind her when she throws it up (which is often).

There’s glitter.

He sees his family huddled together—Cora outright laughing at the sign, his father smiling proudly at him, his mom snapping pictures. He thinks Stiles is right. Win or lose, this isn’t that bad.

Even Boyd is there, sitting stoically in the seats with Erica. He doesn’t have a sign, but he does have a foam finger that he punches into the air whenever Derek makes a decent play.

They win the game.

Derek is sweaty and muddy by the time it’s finally over, but he’s happy. His cheeks are red from exertion and everyone’s screaming all around him.

He catches sight of Stiles out of the corner of his eye, pushing his way through the crowd, and he turns to meet him halfway, still on an adrenaline high. Then Kate’s suddenly in front of him, mouth curved up in a saccharine sweet smile and fingernails digging into his forearm.

“Great game!” she chirps.

“Thanks,” he says distractedly, trying to see if there’s another way around her. He’s spotted his family now, waving eagerly from a few yards away, but as he opens his mouth to tell Kate this, she leans in for a lingering hug, pressing her breasts up against Derek’s jersey. He pats her awkwardly on the back.

“So,” she sighs as she pulls back. “We should celebrate.”

“Another Preserve Party?” he asks warily.

“No,” she laughs, though the unsubtle gleam in her eye suggests she wouldn’t mind a chance to dance with him again. He decides to make his escape quickly.

“Text me,” he tells her, gesturing towards his family. “I gotta go.”

She nods, though her smile fades a little at his words. He doesn't even feel a little guilty as he turns on his heel and rushes away.

“We’re so proud of you honey!” His mom gushes while his dad pulls him into a tight hug the second he gets close enough. “You did great!”

“You weren’t horrible,” Cora concedes and Derek hugs her too, just to hear her squeal in disgust.

His parents catch sight of some people they know and head over to talk after awhile, Cora wandering off to find friends of her own. Derek’s scarcely been standing there for twenty seconds when Stiles shows up next to him and bumps his shoulder with his own.

“Good job,” he says teasingly. “You didn’t fuck up.”

“I almost did,” Derek admits. “That one goal near the end was a fluke. I actually just slipped on some mud and the ball flew into the net.”

“The sad thing,” Stiles says after a moment, “is that I have literally no idea whether you’re joking or not.”

“I never joke,” he says solemnly and Stiles laughs, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Once upon a time I might’ve believed that. But I know all your secrets now. You  _carpool_."

“Are you ever going to let that go?”

“ _Nope_. All your secrets, remember?”

Something in the general headiness of the atmosphere is making Derek feel lighter, and he turns to Stiles, smiling shyly. “Not all of them,” he says, and immediately has no idea why he did that.

“Oh?” Stiles is looking at him, one eyebrow raised, teeth worrying his bottom lip and Derek remembers how he felt plastered all along his back. He swallows convulsively, determinedly not thinking of what he'd done after he'd gotten home, how he'd brought himself off to thoughts of Stiles.

“Saw you talking to Kate,” Stiles says after a moment, taking a minute step back. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Oh,” Derek says hoarsely, forcing himself to look away. “Yeah, she wants to do something this weekend. She’s gonna text me later.”

“She trying for second base or something?” Stiles asks tightly.

“I don’t know,” Derek shrugs. “She hasn’t even made it to first yet.”

Stiles looks at him, surprise written all over his face. “You haven't kissed her?”

“No.” Derek blinks at him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Was I supposed to?”

“No, I just—assumed. Huh.”

Derek looks out in the crowd again and sees Cora laughing with Isaac, one hip cocked. Derek barely suppresses a growl. “I have to go. Deal with something.”

Stiles follows his gaze and lets out a laugh. “You’re being such a cliché big brother right now, you know that?” Derek rolls his eyes. “Alright, well. You know where to find me if you need anything,” Stiles waves once before he lopes away and Derek watches him go for one long second before he goes to drag Cora back to their parents.

* * *

Kate texts him the next morning:  _Sal's at 7?_

He stares at his phone for a long time—throat dry, mind racing.

She's moving fast. Faster than expected. Which is both good and bad, for several different reasons. It's good because the faster they move, the sooner Derek will get the chance to find her burn book. It's bad because, well, the faster they move, the faster they _move_.  

 _She trying for second base or something?_  echoes through his head and Derek swallows hard.

He's never kissed anyone. Never gone on a date, never held hands. He doesn't know what Kate wants from him...what she'll _expect_ tonight, and that makes him feel lost and anxious. The longer he stares at the message, the more certain he is that he's going to fail miserably and ruin the whole plan.

He needs help. 

He needs advice. 

He needs—

 _Sure_ , he finally answers, which is how he winds up standing outside Stiles's house half an hour later.

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski opens the door in full uniform, and Derek’s stomach plummets to his feet. Fuck, how could he have forgotten that Stiles’s dad was the _sheriff_?? 

“You’re not Scott,” he says, mildly surprised.

Derek sticks his hand out obediently. “N-No, sir. I’m Derek.”

The sheriff squints at him. Derek tries not to look completely guilty, and probably fails horrifically. Shit, he's probably going to arrest Derek for thinking impure thoughts about his son—no matter how fleeting they were.

“Hale,” he says finally, shaking the proffered hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard lots of good things.”

“You have?” Derek asks dumbly, reeling from the possibility he might not get thrown into the back of the squad car sitting in the driveway.

Stiles comes padding into view, yawning widely, hair a little mussed up. He’s wearing pajama pants, and his t-shirt is hiked up on one side, showing a pale hipbone. Derek is suddenly, startlingly sure it was a terrible idea to come here. 

Stiles stops short when he catches sight of him. “You’re not Scott,” he says, blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes.

“So I’ve been told,” Derek says dryly.

“Am I hallucinating?”

“Uh—“

The sheriff rolls his eyes. “I’m heading into the station. You boys don’t get into any trouble, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek says. 

Stiles scoffs at his tone, but Sheriff Stilinski gives him an approving look and sets off whistling towards his car. 

“Yes sir?” Stiles mocks. 

“ _Shut up_ ,” he hisses, shouldering Stiles to the side as he steps into the house. 

“So. Not that I’m complaining, but why are you here?” Stiles asks, shutting the door and heading back into the kitchen. Derek follows him, hands sweating by his sides. 

“I don’t even get a good morning?” Derek asks sourly. 

“Good Morning, Derek,” Stiles says, picking up a bowl full of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and shoving a spoonful in his mouth. “Now why are you here?”

He feels stupid all of a sudden; feels like he's overreacted for no reason even though it had seemed like a big deal when he was alone in his room. "Sorry. I should've just texted you—"

"Derek," Stiles says again.

"You said you would help me if I needed it," he grits out, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

He stills. "And do you need it?"

“I—“ Derek frowns down at the floor before nodding. “I have a problem.”

“With Kate?”

" _Duh_."

“Okaaaaay,” Stiles says slowly. “What is it?”

"She wants to go to Sal's tonight."

Stiles chokes on his cereal. "Tonight?  Dude, that's awesome! This is what we've been waiting for, isn't it? Relationship is a go!" Derek shrugs reluctantly and Stiles stills. "Is that the problem? You don't want to do this anymore?"

"No," Derek sighs, runs an aggravated hand over his face. "It's not that. It's—what if—" he cuts himself off for a second, all too aware he sounds young and pitiful.

Stiles makes an impatient gesture. "Come on, spill," he says. "I'm not gonna tell anyone."

Derek nods, reassured despite himself. He forces the words out. "What if she...you know, wants to kiss me? I mean, you said it yourself, it's weird we haven't yet—"

Stiles laughs, which only makes Derek more frustrated. "It's a little weird, yeah, but it's not the end of the world. Everyone moves at a different pace. Look, just..." he sets his bowl down and turns to face Derek. "You're worried about messing up if she tries to kiss you?"

Derek nods unhappily.

"Just _relax_. That's not gonna happen. You’ve gotta stop psyching yourself out of stuff. It isn’t as hard as you’re making it seem—“

“Yeah, and how would I know that?” Derek asks sharply. “Considering I’ve never done any of it before and—suddenly I have to be _good_ at it and I have to do it with Kate and—“

“Whoa,” he interrupts, eyes wide. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“I don’t wear panties,” Derek huffs.

“It’s an _expression_ ,” Stiles groans, grabbing him by the wrist and towing him into the living room. There's a History Channel documentary playing on the television, but Stiles clicks it off with an angry flourish. “God you’re impossible. Sit down.”

“No.”

“ _Derek_ —“

“Fine,” he grumbles, collapsing onto the sofa.

Stiles drops down too, thigh pressing up against Derek’s. He looks down at it warily. “Kiss me," Stiles orders.

Derek's jaw slackens in shock, eyes snapping to Stiles's face with the force of a rubber band. He doesn't look like he's joking. Derek can't really breathe. " _What_ ," he chokes out. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You wanted help right? This is help. Practice kissing. All the cool kids are doing it."

"I..." He fixes his eyes on the wall of pictures Stiles had forbidden him from looking at last time he was here. “I don't think that's true."

He shrugs. "Suit yourself." He goes to get up but Derek's hand moves of it's own volition and grabs at his arm before he can disappear.

"Wait!"

Stiles falls back with an _oof_ and an impish smile. "Change your mind already?"

“It’s not a—you don’t have to,” Derek says stiffly once he’s settled back on the couch. He can feel Stiles's eyes boring into his flushed cheeks, but can't make himself look up at him. 

“I’ll do it,” Stiles says after a pregnant pause. “It’s not like it’ll be a hardship,” which, _what?_ Derek doesn’t even know what that means. 

“Okay," he mutters, heart beating in his ears. Stiles is going to kiss him. Stiles is going to be his first kiss. Albeit, for teaching purposes, but— 

He realizes very abruptly that he’s a lot more okay with this than he should be. This was probably a terrible idea. 

“So…” Stiles says, clearing his throat softly. “How do you want to do this?”

Derek laughs croakily. "I—don’t know. This is crazy. You’re the one with the experience here.”

"Right." Stiles thinks for a second, eyes studying Derek carefully. He shifts slightly under the attention. "Alright," he says suddenly, rubbing his hands together. "So: Step One: stop freaking out and look like you actually want to kiss me.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but obediently takes a deep breath and rolls some of the tension out of his shoulders. Stiles’s whole body is angled towards him now, hand resting on the cushion nearest to Derek’s hip and fingers tapping out an off-beat rhythm. Derek lets his eyes fall to Stiles's mouth, tongue coming out to furtively lick his lips. 

“Good, that’s good,” Stiles murmurs, voice lower than before. Derek sucks in a breath.

"This is crazy," he says again.

“Yeah, probably," he agrees. "You ready?”

He’s not, not really—isn’t even sure how he would effectively prepare for this. He nods anyways. 

Stiles nods too, like he’s steeling himself, and then his palm—slightly sweaty—comes up to cup the back of Derek’s head. He moves in slowly, eyes flickering between Derek’s eyes constantly, like he’s checking to make sure he isn’t having second thoughts. 

He isn’t. 

There’s a moment, right before their lips touch, when Stiles pauses slightly and Derek’s hands fist on the edge of the couch. Stiles’s breath comes out in a shaky shudder to ghost across Derek’s lips and then he’s closing that extra inch and—

Their lips press together softly. Just one long second of firmness and then he’s pulling back. 

Derek is immediately aware that he did absolutely nothing except sit there, mouth in a tense line.

“Sorry,” he blurts out, face flushing. “I—that was probably horrible—“

“It wasn’t that bad,” Stiles laughs. His Adam’s Apple bobs when he swallows. “That’s why we’re doing this, right?”

Derek nods. 

“So. You want to try again?”

“Uh. Sure.”

“Okay,” he rumbles out, leaning close again, and the heady, masculine scent of him makes Derek’s heart trip into overtime. 

This time when Stiles kisses him, Derek tries to kiss back, eyes scrunched up in concentration. Stiles pulls back a millimeter and says, “Relax,” and then—Stiles’s hand is pressing comfortingly against the slope of his neck, lips pressing against Derek’s again and again until it doesn’t feel that forced. 

“I think you might be my best student ever,” Stiles murmurs, not even bothering to move his mouth completely away from Derek’s lips. There’s something about the action that’s intimate—so intimate it sends shivers cascading through Derek’s body. 

“I’m. You do this often?” Derek manages to say and Stiles snorts against him, moves back to a safer distance. 

“No.” He says. “Never. But you seem like you’ve got the basics now. It’s not too hard, right?”

“Right,” he says weakly. His lips are tingling slightly, eyes wide, and Stiles is still really close. He just kissed a guy. And it was _awesome_. 

Something in his expression makes Stiles throw back his head and laugh, which is a sight that Derek is suddenly sure he will never tire of. This was _definitely_ a bad idea. "You stay here," Stiles tells him, still smiling. "I'm gonna go call the guys so we can come up with a plan for tonight."

"Okay," Derek says, and is mildly surprised when even the reminder of Kate doesn't dampen his mood. 


	9. Sal's

Sal’s Diner is horrible. It sucks when he’s working there and it sucks even more when he’s eating there.

Kira is their waitress, and Derek spends the whole time ducking her confused stares and hoping she doesn’t blow his cover while Kate tries to play footsie with him under the table. The conversation is stilted, awkward. It doesn’t help that he’s got a perfect view of Stiles slouched down and surreptitiously watching them in a booth over Kate’s shoulder. He keeps putting things in his mouth—straws, spoons, fries, hotdogs. He licks his fingers clean constantly. It’s like he’s _trying_ to torture Derek; _trying_ make sure the shape of his lips is imprinted in Derek's memory.

"Derek," Kate says sharply, and Derek jumps and tries to pretend like he wasn't totally zoning out. He'll never understand why so many guys clamor to get one of these dates with Kate, when the only thing she's done so far is alluringly blink at him and talk about Jenna Hurley’s ill-fitting cheerleading uniform like it’s _important_. 

He sighs and shoves another nacho in his mouth.  

* * *

They don’t kiss at the end of the night. He can’t bring himself to do it. For some reason the things that are easy with Stiles are…not with Kate. Plus, she’d spent the last five minutes of dinner coating her lips in cherry lip gloss, so forgive Derek for being a little wary. He didn’t practice that. He’s sure lip gloss changes everything, so. He hugs her. 

There’s an awkward moment where Kate sways forwards and Derek hurriedly steps back. She seems put-off, a little confused that he doesn’t want to go a step further—which he supposes he gets since every other guy she’s ever dated has probably thrown themselves at her feet. He gives her a wave and she gives him a look and then they part ways to their separate cars. Derek sits in the front seat of his Camaro and tries not to think about the fact that _smelling_ Stiles elicits more of a reaction from him than almost-kissing Kate. Christ.

He's so screwed.

He thinks of spit-slick lips and presses his fingers to his eyes until he sees spots. When he opens them, he catches sight of Isaac lurking in a bush.

He sighs and drives back to his house on autopilot.

He’s not really expecting anything else to happen that night, which is why he almost falls out of bed when his phone rings an hour later. The caller ID shows that it’s Stiles, and Derek spends a few stupid seconds panicking before he just answers it with a held breath.

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” Stiles says. His voice sounds lower over the phone than it does in real life, and it sends a shiver up Derek’s spine.

“Is something wrong?” he asks warily. He realizes he’s sitting ramrod straight on his bed and tries to relax a little bit.

"No, no, it’s fine. I just thought you should know that things are going better than expected.” Derek is silent. “She didn't meet anyone else," Stiles clarifies, after a pause. "After you left, she just...went home. There was no cheating to be caught on tape. Which kind of sucks for the evidence gathering portion of the plan, but it means she likes you more than she liked us."

"Are you sure she didn't see you guys and call off her other dates?" Derek asks dubiously. 

There’s a short scuffle and then Jackson’s voice comes sneering over the line. It’s decidedly less pleasant. "Fuck you, we were sneaky—"

"Maybe she did, maybe she didn't," Stiles interrupts. “You’re on speaker by the way, Derek.”

“A little heads up next time would be nice,” he says dryly.

“Anything for you.”

“God,” Derek faintly hears Isaac say in the background. “Can you guys stop flirting for like two secon—“

" _So_ ," Stiles says loudly. Derek feels his cheeks flare red. "No video on her cheating, but we definitely got some pretty incriminating audio footage of how she really feels about some of her friends tonight."

"Right??" Derek says, before he can help himself. "Did she talk like that on your dates?"

Stiles sounds like he's trying to hold back a smile. "Not really. Her hatred for Jenna's uniform was a bit excessive, huh?"

"Yes. She would _not_ shut up about it."

"Hey," Isaac says slyly, closer to the phone this time, "speaking of the date. How'd your first kiss go?"

"Yeah," Jackson calls. "How'd it go?"

Derek groans. "It wasn't my first kiss, shut up," he blurts out. He’s met with a shocked, thick silence and blanches. "No," he says wildly, "that's not—we didn't kiss—that's what I meant, we _didn't_ kiss, so—"

"You said you'd never had a girlfriend!" Jackson exclaims, sounding way more offended than is necessary. 

"You don't have to have a girlfriend to kiss someone," Isaac points out and Derek buries his face in a pillow. He waits for Stiles to say something, but his voice is conspicuously missing from Isaac’s and Jackson’s chatter. 

"Who was it?" Jackson asks, and Isaac falls silent to listen. 

"No one," Derek says, wiping sweaty palms on his thighs. 

"He's lying," Isaac says.  

"I'm not!"

"Come on, just tell us—"   

"Guys," Stiles speaks up, finally, "Leave him alone."

"Not a chance," Jackson snorts. 

"What does she look like?" Isaac prods. 

Derek is embarrassed, so _fucking_ embarrassed, because _he_ is sitting right next to them. He refuses to answer, hates that they’re making it into something bigger—something more proper than a pity-kiss so he’d know what he was doing. He waits on tenterhooks for Stiles to say something to correct them, but. 

Stiles doesn’t. 

Derek doesn't know why he doesn't. It would be so _easy_ for him to open his mouth and tell them what really happened, but he stays silent. Isaac and Jackson get bored eventually, let the subject drop with a few more scoffs and grumbles. Derek isn’t even going to be able to look Stiles in the eye next time they meet for fear of what he'll say to him.

"Hey," Stiles eventually says, quietly. “You’re off speaker phone now. Isaac and Jackson are leaving.” Derek cringes, half-expecting Stiles to tear into him for accidentally talking about the kiss—maybe make sure he knows that it meant nothing—but all he says is: "Sorry about that."

* * *

"Hey bro," Cora says cheerily, slipping into the empty seat next to him. Derek is immediately on his guard. 

"What do you want?" he asks warily, setting his apple back on the tray. He looks around hopefully for Boyd, but he's still a ways back in the lunch line, messing with his phone.

"That depends," she says sweetly, resting her chin in her hands. "Why did Isaac text me this morning and ask me if I knew who your first kiss was with?"

"Why do you even have Isaac's phone number," he grits out, pushing his food away from him in a fit of childish petulance. Derek had ( _wrongly_ ) thought that Isaac and Jackson were going to let the subject drop.

"Why do you think?" she groans, tone hardening. "Derek, that's not even the point! How come you never said you had your first kiss? When did it happen?? Who was it with? I asked Laura and she didn't know either, come on tell me—"

"You got _Laura_ involved?" Derek snaps. "Cora!" 

"What?" she asks, like she's not slowly and methodically ruining his life.

"It's none of your business!"

"Of course it's my business! A month ago you were such a virgin, it was physically painful for me. Now you're kissing random people—"

"Shut up—"

"Is this part of your sexual crisis?" she asks suddenly, eyes widening. "Did you kiss a guy; is that why you won't say?" Derek splutters at her, but the involuntary flush that spreads instantly over his cheeks seems to be the only confirmation she needs. "Oh my God, you did! Derek, that's great—"

"I'm going to kill you if you don't stop talking _right now_ ," he says tightly, water bottle buckling under the force of his grip.

"Oops," someone— _Kate_ —giggles and Cora rears away from him, turns to glare at her. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"You are."

" _Cora_ ," Derek hisses, but she just stomps on his foot. 

"I just wanted to stop by and remind Derek of how much fun I had on our date on Saturday," Kate says, grinning like the cat that caught the canary. Something about it doesn't set right with him, distracts him from the throbbing pain in his toes. 

"You had fun?" he asks dumbly. 

" _So_ much fun," she simpers. "I can't wait until our next one. I have a few ideas."

"Oh. Okay."

"I'll text you."

"Sure."

"Your hair actually looks nice today Cora," Kate pauses to say before she leaves, and Derek feels his sister tense next to him. He tenses too. "Did you finally brush it?"

"No," Cora says tightly. "I can't find my brush. I think it's too busy being the stick in your ass."

Kate's lip curls into a sneer before she flounces off, and Derek can't help the snort that escapes him. 

"Nice one," he says and Cora rolls her eyes. 

"I'm so sick of her," she says. "Please tell me your plan is working. Ever since you started 'dating' she's gotten ten times more insufferable."

“Yeah,” Derek sighs as he gets an indignant text message from Laura. “It’s working.” 

* * *

By the time Chemistry rolls around, Derek is sick and tired of the onslaught of _Derek tell me who u kissed right now u little twerp_ and _CORA SAYS YOU LIKE STILES STILISNKI IS THAT TRUE_ text messages he’s been bombarded with all day.

He faceplants onto his desk when his phone buzzes in his pocket for the ten thousandth time and groans loudly.

“You alright?” Stiles asks from somewhere to his left. Derek lifts his head reluctantly. Stiles looks far too amused at his pain.

“It’s my sisters,” Derek grits out. “I hate them.”

“Aww,” he laughs. “You say you hate them, but it sounds like you love them.”

“I _don’t_ ,” he grits out.

“What are they doing?” Stiles asks and Derek darts his eyes away and clears his throat, the back of his neck getting itchy with nerves. He suddenly remembers why he was nervous to see Stiles today.

“Oh. Um. It’s nothing, really—“

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

He purses his lips, wishes he’d just kept his big mouth shut. He catches sight of Scott making frantic gestures at him from his spot at the front of the class, but Derek turns his head away and refocuses on Stiles. _Stiles_. Who had kissed him last time they were together. Derek's heart speeds up at the mere thought and he exhales frustratedly. _Stiles_ is sitting backwards on his stool, blinking beguilelessly at Derek like it doesn't even matter to him. Like the memory isn't cropping up in his head at the most inopportune times. And it probably _isn't_. _It was a practice kiss_ , Derek reminds himself sternly.  _It didn't mean anything to him and it doesn't mean anything to me._

Stiles is still looking at him expectantly and Derek heaves out a sigh, rubs a hand over his knee and forces himself to say: “They’re just. Isaac told Cora about the whole first kiss thing and now they won’t stop bugging me about it.” He rolls his eyes for good measure.

“Oh.” Stiles swallows, twin spots of pink appearing high on his cheeks. “Yeah. That sucks.” Derek shifts uncomfortably. “Sorry if you regret it.”

Derek blinks at him in shock, feeling a little light-headed with confusion, but Stiles is chewing on a pen, eyes downcast.  

“I don’t—“

"Hey Derek," Scott says suddenly from behind him.

"H—hi Scott.” He huffs, not even bothering to move his eyes from where they rest incredulously on Stiles. He thought that _Derek_ regretted it? “Stiles,” he says again, waits until his eyes flicker up to meet his. “I _don’t_. Regret it.“

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was…”

“Derek,” Scott says again.

“Dude,” Stiles mutters sharply. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

Scott ignores him. "Do you remember what we talked about?" His eyes flick pointedly over to Allison's empty seat, just in case Derek forgot about Scott's massive crush on her or something. (He didn't.)

"Yes,” he groans, finally turning to face Scott. “I remember.”

"Good. Maybe you can finally do something about it today?" His eyebrows collapse into a pleading expression and Derek sighs loudly. "Please?" Scott whispers loudly. "I'm dying here, man!" 

"Fine," Derek concedes shortly, just as Allison walks in and Mr. Harris snaps at Scott to sit down. Stiles shoots him a questioning look that Derek waves away exasperatedly.

"Hi Derek," Allison says quietly, slipping into her spot and giving him the usual smile. 

Derek pauses, tries to think up a way to approach the subject. He's not good at this kind of stuff—being sneaky. Scott really should have asked Stiles to help. _Stiles_. Who was apparently under the impression that Derek regretted kissing him. He rubs a hand over his hair. "Uhh, hello. Hi."

She huffs out a little laugh. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he shifts nervously; decides to just go for broke. "Just curious."

One of her eyebrows quirks. "About...?"

"Well. A friend and I were talking, and...What would you say your type is?" 

"My...type?"

"In guys?" he clarifies, hating Scott with every fiber of his being. He's all too aware of Stiles's astonished gaze burning into the side of his neck. 

"My type in guys," Allison repeats slowly. 

"Yeah. Would you say you have a thing for guys with dark hair? Who are...maybe on the lacrosse team?"

She frowns at him, suddenly looking angry and Derek feels like he's made some sort of mistake. "Are you hitting on me?" she hisses. 

"What?" he yelps. "No!"

"I can't believe you would do that to Kate," she says, eyes flashing. 

"Allison, that's not—" 

"Are you doing this to make her jealous?"

"No," he groans, palming his face. This is bad, this is so, so— "Oh my God. I'm. _Fuck_. I'm asking for Scott, okay?" 

Her face goes slack with shock for a minute before her cheeks flame red. "Scott? McCall?"

"Yes. He wanted me to ask if you were, you know. Interested in him."

"Oh," she says, passing a hand over her eyes briefly. "Oh. Wow, I. I'm so sorry. Um."

"Don't be," he says wryly. "It's my fault for agreeing to ask you."

She closes her eyes bashfully, pressing her lips together. Derek is having a really hard time believing she's somehow in league with Kate. "Still," she says eventually. "I'm sorry. And you can tell Scott..." her gaze drifts over to the guy in question who happens to be turned around backwards in his seat, watching them with rapt attention. He spins around a beat too late, sneaks another look over his shoulder and Allison giggles. "Tell him I am. Interested."

Derek lets out a breath of air. "Great." He turns back to his textbook only to find Stiles shaking with silent laughter at him. Derek flips him off and gets yelled at by Harris for his troubles.

* * *

"Okay, but what exactly did she say," Scott asks him for the eightieth time.

Derek groans and straightens out the magnet he got from Stiles before slamming his locker shut. "She said she was interested. Just ask her out. And _no_ ," he snaps, digging his phone out of his backpack. "I am not doing that for you."

"I didn't ask you to," Scott says sourly. 

Derek isn't exactly listening anymore, having read a truly alarming text message nestled in between the ones from Laura.

>> **From Kate:** _Movies Fri @ BHC?_

He might not be very experienced at this whole thing, but even _he_ knows that the Beacon Hills Cinema is where couples go to completely ignore the films and suck face the whole time. (He’d gone once with Boyd because their tickets were cheaper than the AMC 30 across the highway, and it was the most uncomfortable experience of his life). 

"Derek?" Scott asks, waving his lacrosse stick in front of his face. "Hey, did you hear what I said?" 

"I have to—I have to go find Stiles," he says faintly, and leaves the locker room before Scott can say anything else. He makes a beeline for Stiles's last known location, which was on the bleachers sucking on a pen while Derek tried to concentrate on passing drills. Thankfully Stiles is still lounging there (how anyone can _lounge_ on metal bleachers, Derek has no idea, but Stiles achieves it). He perks up when he sees Derek coming towards him. 

"Hey," he calls brightly. "There's my star player!"

"Come here," Derek says tersely, ignoring the small thrill he gets from the praise and hooking a hand in one of Stiles's backpack straps. He drags him along behind him until they're safely under the bleachers. 

"Okay—well," Stiles says, shadows playing over his face in unfair patterns. "This was unexpected." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Did you bring me here to have your _wicked way_ with me?"

"What?" Derek chokes. " _No!_ " 

"Bummer," he says easily and Derek growls and shoves his phone in his face. 

Stiles gives him an annoyed look, before yanking the phone from him and holding it a little farther away from his face. His expression grows pinched as he reads it.

"She wants to go to Beacon Hills Cinema?" he asks. "Guess she really _is_ trying to get to second base."

"First base," Derek corrects. "Still haven't kissed her, remember?"

"Oh. Right," Stiles says, eyes flickering up furtively to meet his. He clears his throat and hands the phone back. "Do you, uhm," he shuffles his feet, looking a little anxious in the way he's suddenly twitchy. "I mean, since you don't regret last time.... If you wanted me to, I could help you out again. Give you a refresher course or something." He swallows hard. "If you...thought that would help."

"Here?" Derek's voice cracks embarrassingly, breath already coming faster. 

"We could head back to my house," he suggests, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. "If you want to."

"Yeah, okay," Derek says, with a casualness he absolutely does not feel.


	10. BHC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry the update came so late in the day, I've been crazy busy! 
> 
> KIND OF SPOILER-ISH **WARNING** : There _is_ a Kate/Derek kiss in this chapter. Just wanted to let you guys know in case that's a dealbreaker for anyone. It's the only one that will happen in this story. MORE SPOILER-ISH DETAILS: It was really difficult to write this part (ONE: because I really hate Kate/Derek) and TWO: because I didn't want it to seem like Derek was getting forced or coerced into kissing her. That being said, he obviously isn't thrilled about it, but he is totally aware it's probably going to happen since their (FAKE)relationship is progressing and he goes into it with his eyes wide open. Also, I feel like one of his biggest concerns is not that he doesn't want to kiss Kate, but that he doesn't want to kiss Kate _badly_. Hence the kissing lessons. I hope that's clear in the story, but let me know if you think I need to add extra tags or something. 
> 
> That being said: I hope you guys enjoy! :) There's some fluff coming up! And some Sterek kisses too ;) xoxo

"I'll be right back," Stiles shouts, as soon as they walk into his house, already thundering up the stairs. Derek takes the opportunity to sidle over to the picture wall, but he's only able to look at a few pictures (Stiles with Scott and covered in mud, Stiles asleep on the toilet, Stiles smiling proudly on the Sheriff's shoulders) before Stiles is back and protesting loudly. 

"What are you doing?" he squeals, bodily moving him away from the wall. "I'm naked in some of those!"

"You were four," Derek scoffs. "That doesn't count."

"Do you want it to count?" Stiles asks, sly smile sneaking onto his face. "You know, all you have to do is ask and my clothes come off—"

"What— _no_!" he flushes, opens his mouth again, but Stiles cuts him off. 

"Shut up and say hi to the camera," he says gleefully, waving it in front of his face.

Derek glares at him. "Turn that off."

"I need to test it; see if it can pick up voices from like ten feet away," he says, dodging and laughing when Derek tries to grab it out of his hands. "Go in the kitchen and say something."

Derek huffs, stomps out of the room. "I hate you," he deadpans and then helps himself to a water bottle. 

"I heard that!" Stiles calls indignantly. Derek smirks at him as he comes back into the room. "Unfortunately, the camera didn't," he sighs after a second, setting it on the coffee table. "I have a little voice recorder upstairs somewhere, you'll just have to keep that in your pocket so we can make sure and get what Kate's saying. Just don't let her cop a feel."

"Don't worry. I won't."

Stiles laughs. "Great. So." He claps his hands together. It's clinical, reminds Derek that this is just practice, just a way to get some experience before he's thrown to the wolves. "Why don't we work on hand placement this time?"

He takes another sip from his water bottle and sets it on a coaster, wipes his hands on the tops of his jeans. Stiles sits down next to him on the couch. "Alright. What do I need to know?"

"Everything," Stiles teases. "Your hands were like limp fish last time."

Derek chuckles nervously, even as his heart plummets to his feet in shame. 

"Kidding," Stiles assures him quickly. "I'm kidding, of course."

"Of course?"

"Of course," he repeats again, voice softer. He shuffles a bit closer. "Besides, even if they were, that's why I'm here. Right?"

"I don't know," Derek murmurs, mostly just to give himself a little extra time to prepare before Stiles is kissing him. _Again_. "You sure you're an expert?"

Stiles barks out a surprised laugh. "Suddenly you're doubting my abilities?"

"I'm just saying. Apparently those who can't do, _teach_." 

"Fuck you," he says, smiling and without heat. "Come closer. You usually want some point of contact between you and whoever you're kissing."

"Like..."

"Like your hand," Stiles says, grasping Derek's palm and bringing it up slowly, "on their neck."

Derek swallows heavily, lets his thumb rest on the hinge of his jaw. He pulls him forward hesitantly, but Stiles comes easily, lips already parted. 

The feeling of their mouths meeting sends a shock through Derek and his hand tightens involuntarily. Stiles makes a little noise, presses in closer, puts his own hand on Derek's thigh.

"Am I—is this—" 

"Good," Stiles mumbles, lips still brushing his. "It's good. Relax." One of his hands slides down Derek's arm, over the thin skin of his wrist and moves his hand up until his fingers are threaded into Stiles's hair. He tugs and Stiles inhales sharply, presses his lips harder against his own. 

Derek feels dizzy, overwhelmed with the sensations that accompany kissing Stiles—the swooping of his stomach and tingling of his nerves. He breaks away with a gasp and Stiles makes a little noise that goes straight to his dick which is. Well, not good is what it is. Stiles might be able to overlook an accidental boner while grinding, there's no way he'll be okay with it on a couch after some instructional kissing. 

"Hey, why'd you stop?" Stiles asks, sounding breathless. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he says, shifting his leg up slightly. "Yeah, I'm fine." He leans in again, too fast, and their noses bump together, but Stiles just laughs, tilts his head and captures his lips again. Derek lets his fingers twist back into Stiles's hair, his other hand tight on Stiles's hip, and Stiles wraps his arms around Derek and yanks him closer than before. The movement jostles Derek's hand and he rucks up the hem of Stiles's shirt accidentally, the flat of his palm sliding up the smooth skin of his spine. Stiles makes a plaintive noise against him that Derek echoes embarrassingly. It's too much, too fast, and Derek feels frenzied, out of control.

Stiles's lips are warm and soft, a little wet against his, perfect. He moves his hand farther up the back of Stiles's shirt, scratches lightly on his way back down and revels in the way Stiles groans; whines when Stiles's tongue flicks out to touch his lip— 

"Okay," Stiles says suddenly, pushing away and letting his hands drop into his lap. "Alright, I—I think you got the hang of it. You'll be fine."

They're both breathing hard, flushed red. Stiles's hair is horrifically mussed up, and Derek feels off-kilter, like someone's taken him apart and put him hastily back together.

"Yeah," Derek clears his throat and scoots away. "Yeah, thanks."

* * *

The first thing Derek sees when he walks into the movie theatre is Isaac Lahey, in a leather jacket and a baseball cap, leaning against the wall by the bathrooms. He sticks out like a sore thumb so badly it's pathetic, but a quick glance at Kate shows she hasn't seen him. She's too busy glaring at two girls giggling with each other across the lobby, who Derek belatedly recognizes as Jennifer Blake and Kali.

"Hey, aren't those your friends?" he asks, sneaking a hand into his pocket to make sure the recorder is on. 

She scoffs. "They aren't my friends."

"Oh?"

"They're pathetic," she elaborates sharply, as Kali pulls Jennifer into the parking lot. "The only reason Jen is on the team is so she can watch Kali change into her uniform. They think I don't know, but it's so obvious. If they didn't have big tits, I'd kick them off the team."

Derek is a little taken aback by the harshness of her tone, but recovers quickly enough. “Okay. Well. You want popcorn?” he asks Kate, raising his eyebrows when she scrunches her face.

“Do you know how many carbs are in a tub of popcorn?” she asks. “I don’t fit into that cheerleading outfit by magic, you know. Jenna Hurley on the other hand...”

He sighs heavily, because popcorn was the only thing that could potentially save his evening. He tunes out her rambling and catches sight of someone wearing a hoodie and douchey Italian shoes. Jackson. He’s staring at a movie poster, like he’s enthralled—which could have maybe been convincing if it wasn’t advertising Disney's new _Planes: War Time_ movie.

He turns back to Kate, but she's still rambling about Jenna (fucking _again_ ); sneering at the popcorn machine like it’s personally offended her.

Derek yanks his phone out of his pocket and sends Stiles a quick text that says: _Save me_

He doesn’t get a reply until they’re sitting down in the theater, watching previews with no popcorn, which is just a fucking travesty.

Stiles’s response—a smug smiley-face—only puts him in a worse mood, and he scowls at his phone and shoves it back in his pocket.

It vibrates immediately.

And then once more.

And again.

“You should silence that,” Kate tells him coyly, eyes glinting in the low light from the screen. “Wouldn’t want anything to interrupt us, right?”

“Right,” Derek says half-heartedly, and turns stiffly back to face the screen. “Wouldn’t want that.”

A piece of popcorn hits him in the back of the head, and there is no fucking way that it’s who Derek thinks it is, but even as he thinks it another piece hits him. He twists his body around and sure enough it’s Stiles, slouched three rows back with a backwards baseball cap on his head. Isaac and Jackson are seated next to him.

He’s mouthing something, gesturing wildly with his arms—he thinks he makes out the words, _don’t be a bad date_ —but it’s not until Isaac puts an arm around Jackson’s shoulder and Jackson almost pushes him off the chair that Derek understands what they want him do.

He looks sideways at Kate, who’s still watching the screen, face pinched, and tries (as casually as he can) to settle an arm over her shoulders.

She looks up at him in surprise, smiles wolfishly and then snuggles up into his side. 

Derek turns his head once more and sends his best glare towards the guys. Stiles gives him an exaggerated thumbs up and then hits him in the nose with another piece of popcorn.

* * *

Derek has been moderately successful so far in pretending to be completely engrossed in every second of _Final Destination 6: The Final Ride_. He'd been pretty sure there was no way to make these movies even more ridiculous, but apparently setting it in the Old West was the way to do it.   

Kate's patience runs out around the three-quarter mark and her hand suddenly lands on his thigh. He licks his lips nervously and turns to look at her.

She leans up towards him and simultaneously bites her lip, flicking her gaze down to Derek’s. There is literally _no way_ to misinterpret what she wants. He fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

“You gonna kiss me or what, sweetie?” she asks, voice throaty. He was expecting this. He's practiced this. He can do this.

She leans in a little closer.

He goes in for a soft little peck that Kate immediately tries to deepen. It’s weird. She’s much more aggressive than Stiles is in the way she kisses and Derek is not. He can only take so much of the disjointed lip-mashing before he pulls away, ears burning because _shit_ , Isaac and Jackson and _Stiles_ totally just witnessed his total _failure_ of a kiss.

“Can we—I’m sorry,” he lies through his teeth. Kate’s blinking up at him in confusion (and more than a little irritation). Derek's leg itches where she's still grasping it. “I really want to see the end of this movie.”

“Are you serious?” she asks, loudly enough that someone _shh_ ’s them (Derek is 95% sure it was Stiles).

He nods.

“Fine, whatever,” she says after a moment. “But I’m going to the bathroom, this movie fucking blows.” She squeezes past Derek, and he slumps back against the chair, heaving out a frustrated breath.

Someone punches him on the shoulder a moment later and he turns to see Stiles occupying the seat Kate had just vacated. 

“What,” he grits out.

“Want some popcorn?” Stiles asks, holding out his bag, and Derek grudgingly takes a handful and shoves it into his mouth. "How you doing, big guy?" he asks after a moment.

Derek glares at him. "How do you think I'm doing? This movie sucks and I'm pretty sure she just went to climb out the bathroom window."

"There are no windows in these bathrooms," Stiles says blithely. "And I can't believe you don't like this movie! It's Final Destination, Derek. In the Old West. It's genius."

"Why am I not surprised that you like it," he says dryly. Stiles beams at him and offers up some more popcorn.  

"I fucked it up," he sighs eventually, and Stiles frowns.

“I doubt that.”

“It wasn’t…” he trails off, lowers his voice even more just in case Jackson and Isaac are listening in. “It wasn’t like how we practiced. I think I did something wrong.

“No way, dude,” Stiles scoffs. “You’re totally a natural at kissing.” Derek flushes with pleasure at the words and is immensely grateful for the darkness of the theater. 

“You too,” he mumbles.

Stiles gives him a little grin and holds out the bag again. “You always say the sweetest things,” he teases.

“Shut up.”

“Anyway. I was watching, right? And her form was _terrible_. Totally her fault.”

He’s pretty sure Stiles is just saying this to make him feel better, but he nods along anyways because it’s actually working.

“When she comes back, tell her that you want her, but you want to take it slow,” Stiles advises him after a moment of saying nothing. “She’ll eat that shit up.”

"Okay," he says. "Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem." He opens his mouth to say something else, but his phone starts buzzing in his pocket and he looks down at it regretfully. “Kate’s coming back. I gotta go, but. We’ll talk later, alright?” Derek nods, and Stiles pauses, leaning forward and swiping his thumb across Derek's bottom lip. Derek freezes—stares at him in shock—and Stiles's gaze flitters away and then back again. His pupils are blown in the darkness. "Sorry—uhm. You had—you have some butter on your..." he leans forward again, thumb nudging softly against the corner of his mouth. Derek's lips part of their own accord and Stiles sucks in a breath. "There," he says, sounding strangled. "It's gone."

Derek swallows heavily as Stiles stumbles back to his seat and tries not to think too hard. 

* * *

He's just gotten comfortable under the covers; is idly running his fingers through the hair at the base of his cock when his phone starts ringing.

It’s late.

Unusually late for anyone to be calling him, but when he looks at the phone he’s surprised to see it’s Stiles. He hadn’t taken that “we’ll talk later” thing seriously, but apparently he should have.

“Hello?” he answers, hastily taking his hand out of his boxers.

“Heeyy,” Stiles drawls, and Derek whole body reacts to the sound of his voice. “You get home alright?”

“Y—yes.”

“Cool. So, what'd you think of the movie? Change your mind at all?"

Derek wonders what the hell is happening. Even Boyd doesn't call him just to _chat_. "Um. Not really."

" _No?_ " Stiles asks, sounding aghast. 

"Unlike you, I have standards," Derek says, cuddling up under his blanket a little more.

"Derek," he says. "It's _Final Destination_. In the _Old West_."

“So you’ve said.”

Stiles spends the next hour cheerfully rehashing every gory death (his favorite of which had been the scene where the bar tender escaped the saloon fire, only to be trampled by a horse and then impaled on a rusty nail). Derek doesn’t know how anyone could legitimately enjoy these movies, but he thinks he might’ve enjoyed it a little more if he'd gotten to watch it with Stiles—with a tub of popcorn between them and Stiles leaning in to whisper commentary into his ear during every other scene. 

"Derek?" Stiles asks, voice a little scratchy. 

"Sorry," he hums. "I zoned out."

"Thought you fell asleep."

"Almost did," he says, yawning. 

Stiles huffs indignantly. Derek can almost imagine the faux-pout that's taken over his face. It's annoying. "I asked you if you could drive me to school on Monday."

“What if Kate sees?”

“She won’t. We’ll go early.”

"What's wrong with your jeep?"

"Don't worry about it."

"You just want to ride in the Camaro," he says suspiciously.

"Dude, _please_ ," he groans. "Please? Just one time! I'll pay you in sexual favors."

"Be still my beating heart," he deadpans, and Stiles dissolves into laughter on the other end of the line.  

* * *

He drives Stiles to school.

Stiles brings breakfast tacos, and convinces Derek to skip morning practice and they eat them under the tree out behind the old gym where Derek is pretty sure drug deals usually happen. He’ll probably get reamed out by Finstock after school, but he can’t bring himself to regret it.

When Stiles stands up, his ass is wet from the dewy grass and Derek makes fun of him all the way to first period.

(No sexual favors are exchanged).


End file.
